Black, Blue & Very, Very Red
by la reine de coeurs perdus
Summary: When faced with death, Erica can only bring herself to say two words. "Kiss me". Editing in progress
1. Kiss Me

I stood outside the bookshop. The only one within a five kilometre radius of my house.

Incredulous, I pressed my fingers against that cold glass door, the warmth from my hands melting away the frost. I could see in now, at least, even if I couldn't step inside.

You see, I'd been there for no less than ten minutes, incapable of looking away from the sign plastered on the door. The epitome of my grief. Standing outside in the freezing cold, the first day of December, and of course, the eve of my inevitable suspension for what our curriculum coordinator calls 'successive lack of application, motivation _and_ achievement'.

**CLOSED FOR RENOVATION - we apologise for any inconveniences we have caused.**

But they didn't care. Not really. Because if they did, they wouldn't be closed.

There wasn't even a smidgen of hope left for me from _anyone_. They thought my attitude towards work would change - that I might start to develop a 'good work ethic'. But, of course, my laziness had dug my proverbial grave, and if I didn't do something fast, I would be buried in it. Alive.

Problem is, on the very day that I felt inspired to actually do work, I was left de-frosting in two-inch slush, like an idiot.

Karma's a bitch.

Sometimes I wondered whether I had done something wrong in my past life to deserve this. Or maybe it was God's subtle way of telling me to get over myself.

But I was angry. I had a right to be angry. I had a right because if I didn't blame the shop owner or the shop itself, the only person left to blame was myself.

The suspension itself didn't burn. No. It was the fact that they'd add it to a foot long list of excuses as to why I - _the _deplorably underacheiving, private school alumnus - should be expelled. If that's not incentive to work, then I don't know what is.

"Erica Iolanthe Marshall!" _Oh, no. _I thought_. _"Our very lovely tutor asked me to tell you that the bookstore was closed. So she cast me outside, into the bitter cold with the burden of delivering this package to you."

She handed me a tatty hardback that was falling to pieces. I stared at it, not sure whether to be happy or disgusted.

"You can tell me that I'm such an amazing friend now." I arched a brow incredulously. "_Jesus_, you're hard to please. Yes! It's a _bit_ worn, but it's better than nothing."

"Fiona, You're a life saver." I deadpanned, taking the offending article from her. She pursed her lips, gesturing for me to continue. "Thank you, _o mighty Herald. _What on earth would I do without you?"

"And...? Is there anything you want to do for this _herald_ who has devoted so much of her precious time to you?"

I scowled, weighing out my odds. How far could I get away before she caught me? She was taller and I was carrying an anvil.

"How about you buy me a coffee?" She offered, before I could even lift a finger... or a toe; grabbing me by the arm. "It's freezing, and we barely got to see each other at all today._ I_ think it would be good for the both of us. Besides it's only coffee - you'll still have time to do that assignment." I inwardly groaned at the thought.

* * *

The shop was practically empty. Though, it was still better than the streets, which seemed to radiate depression. As far as I was concerned, the depression was infectious, because every time I stepped outside, my mood would always worsen ten-fold. It would have been nice if the ticklish warmth was contageous, instead.

"Why don't we talk anymore?" Caught off-guard, I spluttered, spraying coffee over the table.

She was right, though. We didn't talk anymore. Not really.

"I miss hanging around with you."

"Nobody's stopping you." I quipped, mopping up the liquid on the table with a paper napkin. "-Oh, my bad, I forgot my place. You wouldn't want anyone to realise you have anything to do with me, would you? Because I'm a loser and I have no life."

"Erica!"

"What? It's true." I stated, chucking the scrunched up napkin at the spotty waiter that spat on my food last week. "I'm not ashamed by it, but it looks like you are."

Fiona flushed beet-red, but kept her mouth shut. I'd hurt her feelings. Great. "You know why I have to do this, Erica. I thought you understood."

"-But that's just it." I interjected, sipping my coffee slowly this time, in the high hopes of avoiding another accident. "You're supposed to 'pilot your own life', not let other people decide how you should live it for you."

"I know but… it's those exact people that always expect things from me. I can't just do as I please all the time... as much as I'd love to. You don't get these pressures from anyone, so you don't understand." I said nothing, because she was right.

I didn't understand.

When I didn't speak, Fiona continued to talk at me. "You're still my friend, Erica. I still rely on you. And at times like these, you're the person I turn to for support."

"Maybe I'm not the person you should be turning to, maybe your family only wants whats best for you; and, from their perspective, our friendship is only holding you back. Maybe they're right."

Fiona grimaced. I took that as my cue to shut up. I'd hurt her feelings, again. Lovely to know I had a way with words.

However, it was me who had to take the initiative and try to revive the conversation. "Why don't you say something to them?"

"Are you kidding me?"

"Surprisingly enough, I'm serious."

"What a great idea!" Mock-enthusiasm oozed from her utterance like caramelised sugar. "And seeing as everything I say to you seems to be going in one ear and out the other..."

"Sorry, bad habit."

"Another one?" I'm not going to lie. I have many.

"You even have to ask?"

Fiona sighed. "I don't like fighting with you, so I'm going to be the better person and wave my white flag in surrender."

"Apology accepted."

"It wasn't an apology. I was being diplomatic." She shook her head. Giving up. "Jesus. Sometimes I feel like you're _trying_ to make me dislike you."

I laughed mockingly before finishing my coffee. "I wonder where you got that idea..." Muttering it so quietly that it was almost inaudible. Fiona didn't hear it. She was too busy staring at the boy behind the counter. And grinning. "He is pretty hot, isn't he?"

"Erica!" She hissed, turning away suddenly when he looked up. Strike two for me. My smile widened when I realised her cheeks had darkened at both my boldness and his attention.

Was I going to hang around for strike three? I thought about it. Honestly, I did - but then I caught sight of the clock in the corner of the room. Five o'clock. My shift started in five minutes.

Granddad was going to have my head.

Fiona looked up as I pressed a fiver against the surface of the table. "I'd love to stick around and chat, but I have to go. I'm sorry." She looked like she wanted to say something, but I wasn't going to wait for her to say it. I was already at the door. "Keep the change!" I added over my shoulder, before I darted out into the biting chill of winter.

Throughout the town, melted snow lined the blackened walls. I tried my best to move quickly, but it was almost impossible not to slip on the cobbles. A sudden death-trap. Oh, joy.

Unusually for a Friday afternoon, everywhere appeared to be almost completely deserted - bar the odd person. And, as I had expected, the further away I got, the less people there were. Not to mention I stuck out like a sore thumb.

Admittedly, even in a crowd, I stood out because I was the only person in the local school uniform.

Where I lived, people didn't go to schools with uniforms. They probably didn't even go to school. Me? I was lucky, but if I didn't complete my assignment, my luck would run dry and I would be out faster than I could say _super-cali-fragilistic-expi-ali-docious_. Um-diddy-diddily, um-diddle-eye.

The high street, however, was as empty as barren tundra. _That_ was just plain weird, and slightly unnerving.

My pace gradually slowed until I came to a halt at one of the many clothes boutiques, having sworn that somebody was watching me. I dismissed it as being paranoid. Because, of course, everyone stays at home and does bugger-all on a Friday night. It's not like anyone _goes out_ or anything.

Just thinking about it was making it worse.

So I tried to bring up my mood by humming (harmlessly, I thought), and steered myself around the corner.

What had me stumbling backwards in shock was the person in my way. This person had no face.

I might have peed myself, if it hadn't occured to me that the face was probably hidden by the shadow of their hood.

"Watch where you're going!" someone yelled in the distance. I thought it was the stranger in front of me, but he hadn't moved an inch. That didn't register with me as normal.

Still suffering from shock - and under the impression that I had done somthing to offend it - I mustered a pathetic, "I'm so sorry. I didn't realise that I was in your way." But whoever-it-was remained totally inert. I couldn't even tell if they were breathing.

Deciding that waiting around for a proper reply would not only be a waste of my time, but completely pointless, I hurried on - not wanting to turn back.

I could feel it watching me. That feeling was making me sick.

_What was up with that creep? _My mind hammered away at various theories as I fumbled clumsily for my keys. I had accumulated so much junk that I couldn't even feel the bottom of my bag. Great. The day I realise it would be a good idea to get organised is the day I get spooked by scary people that may or may not have followed me home.

After emptying half the contents of my bag, I caught sight of a glimmer of brass. It seemed like an awful lot of trouble for two measley pieces of metal, but - right then - they were two very important, measley pieces of metal.

"I'm home!" I yelled out of habit. It wasn't a _bad _habit - more a knee-jerk reflex.

Granddad didn't bother poking his head around the door, but I managed to catch a loud grunt acknowledging my arrival. "I'm sorry if I'm late." _Then_ he made his appearance, barging through the workroom door with his favourite mug in hand.

"Just in time, actually. I heard there was going to be a storm tonight. It's awfully lucky you didn't get caught up in it, mind you. Everyone I know is staying home." That explained it! And there was me thinking that a mid-town massacre had occurred during school hours.

"Does that mean that we can close up now?"

"Not so fast, kiddo." He chortled, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, "we never know when we will get a customer, and I'm not going to let some storm sway me into missing that opportunity."

"-But Granddad!" I whined, pulling a face. "Didn't you say that no one you knew was going to leave the house?" He pulled a face to match mine.

"That doesn't stop the people we don't know." We - meaning he.

"-But, it's a fact that _nobody_ that you don't know has ever stepped foot into this store." Granddad left as soon as I had started talking back. I knew he wasn't being rude, he just knew me too well.

So, like the good girl that I wasn't, I settled down and made a start on the homework.

* * *

It must have been about two hours after the storm started when I realised something wasn't right.

It was too dark, too soon - and with only a paragraph left, I was easily distracted...

... especially by the metallic smell that was creeping in, under the door.

It smelt like… _blood. _But I couldn't be sure because it was faint, growing fainter. The rain had nearly erased it completely, but somehow I could still taste it at the back of my mouth. Or maybe that was just my fear.

The droplets pounded angrily against the windows, blurring shapes into one another until they became one single, unidentifiable image.

My paranoia was spiking. I couldn't even look away from the window anymore - having lost complete focus on the paper in front of me. It wasn't even interesting to start with, but now I was never going to finish it.

_What's happening outside?_

A brilliant flash and deafening crack stunned me for about a millisecond, blocking out the tinkering of the bell as the door opened.

When I came to, my jaw went slack, because I was staring at one of the most gorgeous men in the world (dare I say it, even hotter than the guy in the coffee shop). His dark hair was drenched and sticking to godlike features, the almost see-through - from all the water - t-shirt showed off the well sculpted build beneath it.

I could not stop staring.

He grinned widely, bright green eyes flashing in the lack of light. I almost fainted. "I came here to make a purchase."

And then I noticed it.

I couldn't believe that I had missed it… the trail of red that he had left as he entered the room. Shaking slightly, I edged around the counter, past the god, and hesitantly opened the door.

Welcomed by a blast of a vile stench that, even during a downpour, hung thick in the air, I looked down, only to be knocked back into the room, slamming the door behind me faster than I could say 'bloody hell!'.

Bloody Hell indeed.

outside our door on the front step lay a butchered… human… the gender wasn't even clear anymore, the only thing that gave it away was the untouched hand that rolled lifelessly onto the cobbles.

Any colour that might have been on my face no longer existed.

Surpressing a scream and my own bile, I let my eyes meet the mysterious intruder in front of me with a frightened glance. I needed to do something, but my mind was screaming: _no! I don't want to die! _"How can I help you?"

"I already told you that, didn't I?" My heart beat was erratic, and I was pretty sure I wasn't breathing. I even started counting sheep, for all the good that would do me. "I want to make a purchase."

"Is there anything… _specific_ that you are looking for?" Slowly, I had to back away slowly, back to the desk; because, somehow, it felt safer being with my assignment than it did being with the beauty that had just waltzed in through the doors.

He reaked of death. "You already know the answer."

Cold sweat trickled down my back as I attempted to reply without sounding afraid… without giving away the fact that I already knew more about this stranger than I would have ever liked to. My mind shrieked, _he'll kill you! Run away now!_. "I have no idea what you are talking about." I said.

I thought I meant it. "You're lying." But apparently not. Somehow, the space that I had created between us had been filled. I was weak and vulnerable… and shit scared. "I can tell." Then he paused for a moment, waiting. For what exactly? I don't think I wanted to know. "Perhaps you would prefer it if I told you?"

I was thunderstruck, almost literally. As soon as he had opened his mouth, another blinding flash filled the room, setting his crimson eyes alight… crimson. But they were green, right? they had been green, hadn't they?

I mean, it's not like there's an actual condition where your eyes change colour every time lightning flashes. I'd believe that when pigs fly.

"Your eyes…" I murmured, mesmerized.

"I take that as a yes, then." He moved closer. I shuddered, paralysed with terror and a tinge of curiosity. "I want your life."

Shit.

I was actually going to die.

Like all of my fellow predecessors, I tried to run.

Well, I tried, and I failed, as is the way of mother nature - blessing predators with unfair advangtages. He, obviously, had caught me. Trapped me.

He pulled me closer, closer, wrapping his arms around me, caging me like a small animal. "STOP!"

He stared back at me in bewilderment; and I mirrored it, still petrified by the proximity of his body. If anything, I looked more surprised than he did.

"What?" He snarled. Last time I had checked, normal people did not snarl. "Oh, I'm sorry, but I'm not big on the whole last words sort of thing."

It was the derision that made me think clearly.

He could rip my head off, but I was not just going to roll over and let him talk to me like I was an idiot. Inconsistent? Yes. Did I care? No.

Even with the anger boost, I still didn't pack any punch at all. In fact, my response was so sad that it made me cringe. "It's not that… well, maybe it is… it's just that, if you're going to take my life and all, then…" I looked up at him, and forgot that I was angry. I forgot everything. Suddenly I was wishing I had skipped lunch.

"-Then what?" _Oh God_, he was angry. Stupid Erica. Stupid, stupid Erica.

"Kiss me."

Clearly, faced with death, I had become an entirely different person. In the end, I covered my mouth like a startled child (as if that would help).

He hadn't protested, in fact, he was smiling? "How can I kiss you if you cover your mouth?" The shock was obviously doing a number on me, because I could've sworn that he had just accepted my request.

I just stared at him as if he had slapped me. "Wait... what did you say…?"

He said nothing.

I could feel my heart beating so fast that I thought it might actually fracture one of my ribs. _What is happening? What the hell is happening? _I tried to find reason, but found nothing. My brain was unresponsive, just like the rest of me.

Unable to do anything, my arms hung limp at my sides. His snaked around my waist, capturing me, holding me closer - if that was even possible.

He wasn't warm. He was cold... just a little, but I was shivering. Not hypothermia all-your-limbs-freeze-and-fall-off cold - but with no heating and the fact that he was drenched to the bone, if he didn't kill me, I was at serious risk of dying by accident instead of his hand. Pnuemonia was no laughing matter. "Just fulfilling a last request." He whispered against my ear, before pressing his lips against mine.

_so warm_, was the first thought that came to mind. Probably the only thought that came to mind as the combination of confusion and anticipation had caused my brain to implode. It was like he was two different body temperatures, and I wasn't able to process that.

Even the best computers don't bode well under stress.

So, in a nutshell, a dangerous killer had just walked in through the shop door, threatened my life, and now he was kissing me? Talk about a peculiar turn of events.

And then, the lips were gone, and he was smirking. "You're an interesting girl, Erica."

Ha-ha. Very funny. _I'm_ the interesting one... wait. _What_? "How do you-?" _Know my name_..._? _

"I've decided that I'll let you keep your life." It was fair to say I had forgotten about that, but it was nice to know I was going to live to see another day.

What bothered me was that I was trying to decide whether I should express my gratitude or scream. Screaming sounded good, but then he might not be so kind.

"For now." _Oh._ _Crap._"You're mine, Erica. Don't forget that."

And he was gone.

And I was left speechless, at the mercy of a psychopath.

* * *

**A/N: thanks for reading x**

**(sorry for the re-update - I'm a perfectionist, what can I say? I thought I#d fixed this... and realised I hadn't. Silly me**


	2. The Nameless

_Well, today sucks. _

I bet you're thinking: what's so special about _today_? Nothing. Other than the fact that a murderer had kissed me the night before... but that's not important. And no, it didn't suck because it was one specific day; as far as I was concerned, every day at this school was a day that sucked.

However, today had hit the top ten - for reasons that didn't necessarily correlate with my non-existant social life on school grounds.

The sad fact is, because of a certain someone, my lifespan was no longer than this twig. I didn't like school, but at least no one was trying to kill me there; at least... not that I knew of. "How's my lovely lady today?"

"Bug off, Martin." I was glaring daggers at the beaming idiot standing before me. Ever since the start of our final school year, for some reason best beknown to myself, I had become the object of his affections.

Just great.

Now a psychopath _and_ a jerk were after my heart.

Well... at least Martin wasn't trying to remove the organ from my body. Though I was still having trouble deciding which was the worst of the two evils.

"_Jesus_, woman. It's called common courtesy."

"Of course it is. Now go be friendly with someone else, and leave me the frick alone." I made a shooing gesture at him, but instead of moving he scowled.

"What if I want to be friendly with you?" He so did _not_ just say that in public.

"Look, Martin." I started, resting my hand on his shoulder. "Honestly, I'm flattered, but I'm just _not interested_. So, if you don't mind, I have somewhere I need to be."

"I know you'll come around eventually, Erica."

I shot him an unfriendly look. "In your dreams, sweetheart."

"See? We're already making progress." Martin teased, before walking away with a bunch of people I didn't even know existed - sending me a playful wink over his shoulder.

You see, no matter how hard he tried, I would never like him.

Martin was my scapegoat. I got through the day by telling myself that he was the cause of so many of my problems; and last I heard, that was no grounds for building a relationship.

It sounded unfair, though there was method to my madness.

If I didn't have Martin to point the finger at, I'd just make myself depressed by blaming myself for everything that went wrong in my life. When my sanity is in the balance, it kind of takes priority.

On top of that, giving in to Martin's advances would ruin me. End of. I was better safe than sorry. And if people started noticing me as Martin's impoverished girlfriend, I knew I would be very, very sorry.

If it meant I had to sacrifice my identity as an individual, then so be it. The tricky part was waiting for him to give up.

Fiona waved at me from across the courtyard.

I didn't wave back.

Within this building, she had her life and I had mine, and they were both seperate. No matter how many times she might tell me that she didn't choose it for herself, I maintained that distance.

I maintained it because I cared.

Even if we couldn't be friends all the time, I still cared.

* * *

When the day was done, I slipped away without a word, as always. I skipped past go and didn't collect two hundred.

It was boring, running away and telling myself I didn't exist in _their_ world, but boring was good. I liked boredom, because I knew how to cope with it. What I did not like was coming home to find that anything-but-boredom was lying on my bed with a mischievous grin on his face.

I would have screamed, but I stopped myself. Instead, I stood in the doorway, utterly flabbergasted. "How on earth did you get in here?"

"I let myself in." He said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, whilst gesturing to a rather tortured looking wooden frame that used to be my window. "For someone from that school," pointing to the emblem on my blazer, "you don't seem to be living quite the life of luxuries that most people would expect."

"Education is a luxury, you jackass. It means I have the option of doing something with my life." I was tired - too tired to fear for my life. A first mistake would be to think he wasn't dangerous anymore... but honestly, at that moment, I couldn't have cared less.

So I sat next to him just because I could.

"Besides, for a murderer like you, who has shunned society, I'm guessing anything is a luxury."

"I guess." He shrugged dismissively, then tugged on my blazer hard enough to make me fall back next to him.

He wanted to play.

I didn't, but I didn't have it in me to say no…

... not yet, anyway.

"You seem different today, Erica… something wrong?"

"The world is wrong, but I'm not complaining. I'm just sick of it." I grumbled, trying to ignore the lazy patterns he was drawing on my side.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

I watched him pensively, before saying, "you didn't strike me as the type to care."

"I don't. I'm just bored and trying to start a conversation. Is that so bad?" On any other day, I might have taken offence... but I was too tired, and I liked the feeling of his fingertips tracing designs on my hip. It was soothing... pleasantly distracting. "Don't you think it's a bad idea to fall asleep while I'm awake, in your bed." His hands moved to the small of my back. "_Touching_ you?"

"I think I should say yes, but I don't know why." I mumbled into the pillow, trying to keep my eyes open.

His fingers moved up my spine, making my nerves tingle with tiny sparks of pleasure. I didn't want him to stop, but I couldn't think. Not being able to think wasn't good, was it? "Whatever you say, love."

Nestling closer to his lean frame, I peered up at him. Even if my vision was clouded with sleep, those green eyes were still as vibrant as ever. A_ha! I knew they weren't crimson. _I thought, feeling triumphant but not really understanding how.

And just like that, the train of thought disappeared as if it had never existed - swallowed by the abyss in my head. The one I stared into in my nightmares, where I knew all my memories were hiding.

"What are you thinking?" He asked, pushing my fringe away from my face.

_What was I thinking?_ Nothing. I was thinking nothing. I hadn't thought about just nothing for a long, long time.

He leaned closer, cupping my hip with his hand. "Erica?"

"It's hardly fair that you know my name, and I don't know yours, don't you think? You already have so much leverage over helpless, little me - just tell me." I yawned, smiling lethargically up at him. "It can't be that big a secret." Forgetting about his hand, I stretched, rolling over. My shirt stayed caught underneath it, twisted, my stomach bared.

He might have done it on purpose; but I couldn't read minds, so I'd never know.

Though, deliberately or not, the cool air helped me think, helped me look back up at him. Helped me remember why I should have been afraid. "I didn't realise you were interested."

"Like you said... I'm just bored and trying to start a conversation." I smiled, but it faded into panic when he rolled on top of me, fingers sliding beneath the shirt, over my stomach.

I still wasn't used to his abnormal body temperature. The contact had left me gasping and, suddenly, so much more awake.

"You're cold." I whispered, brow furrowed. The drowsy haze was clearing, but my mind was just this side of blissfully inobservant.

Each fluid movement had me captivated, unable to look a way. He leaned closer, breathing against the shell of my air. "I want to kiss you again." He said. It was almost a purr; deep and sensual, tightening things low in my body.

"If I say yes, will you tell me your name?"

"Maybe." He chuckled, smoothing my hair back as he closed the gap between us. I had missed the feel of his lips, the shape of them... the way he tasted.

This time, the kiss was deeper, more demanding, more intimate, leaving me breathless beneath him.

The haze had finally gone, and once he was gone with it, I could only watch him with dread. The little fantasy had come to an abrupt end, and it wasn't a happy one, either.

"What do you want from me?"

"I'll only answer one of your questions, Erica."

I shuddered as his hand glided across my skin, towards my waist, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. "Stop doing that..."

"What?" He smirked down at me, fondling my bare skin with the tip of his index finger. "You mean _that_?" He did it again, just because he could.

"It's... distracting."

"Maybe it's supposed to be distracting." His fingers danced back towards my navel. "You're exhausted, Erica. I'm only helping you relax."

"Why?" I choked, fighting the urge to give in. "Why me?"

"What did I tell you about asking questions?" He grazed his lips against my forehead chastely. Each sensation was different, but each sensation left me wanting. "But seeing as you asked it with real feeling, then I'll answer this one question for you."

_Just the one_? My inner voice whispered. She sounded disappointed.

"You amuse me." That was the horribly, anticlimactic answer he gave me.

He pulled down my shirt, covering me up, before supporting my back as he used his other arm to lift me into a sitting position.

"And not many people can anymore. You should be proud."

"I'm grateful that you haven't killed me." I tried to get up, but the hands on my hips braced me against him, preventing me from escaping. "-But I don't think I'd say I was proud."

"You should be."

I licked my lips, not sure whether I enjoyed his company or whether I wanted him to go away. "Won't you tell me your name?" I tried again. I knew it was hopeless, but it wouldn't stop me from trying.

"It's not something you need to know."

"But I need to call you something." My protests weren't going to get me anywhere, but I kept pushing. I kept hoping that he might give at some point.

"This is starting to get boring, too, Erica." He laughed, getting to his feet. I sat, stranded in the middle of the bed, watching him with bewilderment.

"If you won't give me your real name, then how do I address you? As Lucifer?"

That heartbreaking smile returned, catching my breath in my throat. "I'm flattered, but It's just not me." _Oh, really_? "My alias is Keith."

"Because that suits you waaaay better." I derided, frowning.

"It's either that or nothing."

"But you will tell me your name at some point, won't you?"

"If I'm feeling nice." The light flickered, and went out. "Good night, Erica."

I rushed to turn the light back on. I don't know why, but I did. The darkness didn't feel as safe as it used to.

'Keith' had vanished, though.

I hated to admit it, but whatever he had done to me... I wanted more. I wanted that psycopath to come back to me.

I wanted him to touch me again.

* * *

**A/N: OOOOOO! Cliffhanger. Thank you for reading! x**


	3. The Teddybear's Picnic

**I saved over this chapter, and then removed it. I want to shoot myself. So yeah, it's now completely rewritten. Vamoosed. Oh, God you have no idea how much I want to cry hysterically in a corner right now. It will be shorter. You'll just have to deal with that. I'm in a dark place right now...**

* * *

Time seemed to stop for a while when I woke up that morning.

One part of my brain was trying to convince myself that I was a delusional retard, and that I hadn't been spooning-ish with a sadistic killer less than twelve hours ago. The other, not so... err... genteel part of my brain wanted it to be as real as the skin I lived in. Desperately.

I wasn't about to scrawl his name incessantly on a piece of paper like a child and start listing the names of our babies... _was I?_

I looked at the empty notebook on my desk; those clean, white pages begging to be abused.

Then I imagined myself panting like a wanton spaz, and all but threw those clean, white pages into the waste disposal.

* * *

Kicking up dust on the street seemed to be a much more efficient way of releasing tension.

Hypothetically, at least.

Let's face it, having to deal with the likes of a sexy bad-ass and a rich dipstick was stressing me out. It was nice to have some me time. Some alone time. Some time where I could be as antisociable as I wanted wherever the hell I wanted.

Yes, it was cold. It was always cold. And to be perfectly honest, I _liked_ the cold.

I was just...

... bored.

'Me time' was so unbearably _boring_ now.

The only thing I could think about was how bored I was, how sad my life was... or _his _touch; thus defeating the entire purpose of said excercise. It was supposed to raise my hopes; make me feel better - maybe even help me think like a normal person. After all, I was pretty sure that normal people didn't fantasize about murderers. Then again, I could've been wrong.

And the worst part was, it hadn't even been a day.

I already missed the sight of him on _my _bed. His gaze. His lips. His scent. _Oh, God. I'm a pervert. Just kill me now and spare me the humiliation._

And that was why I was outside, pacing like an idiot. I had seen the same shopfront at least ten times, and it never got any prettier. It was always the same, gaudy off-white colour that smelt faintly of piss.

I wasn't the problem. It was the jerks that had invaded my life.

To put the proverbial icing on the cake: I couldn't even enjoy the simple things in life - because the simple things in life just didn't make the cut. They weren't good enough. And when you're as humble as I am, and the simple things stop mattering, you're pretty much screwed.

"Hello, stranger."

_Oh. Crap. It's __that__ guy._ "Are you stalking me? Because if you are, I'm filing a restraining order."

"Very original." He laughed, "but, for the record, I think I prefer a 'hi, Martin' or 'how are you?'."

Yep. Definitely wanted to shoot myself in the head with a Kalashnikoff. "Sorry. Let me re-phrase that: what the hell are you doing here, _Martin_?"

"Oh, you know; I was in the area - taking a stroll. That sort of thing. Funny meeting you here, actually." Liar. I was pretty sure no one had even heard of this side of town before. It stunk of piss for a reason. "Don't look at me like that. There was a social event not to far off - attendance was mandatory."

"And you could still be there collecting praise and credibility!" I interjected almost too enthusiastically. "Not that you don't already have enough to take over the world; but you get my point. Why _here_ of all places?" Said making an unsubtle gesture at our surroundings.

And I knew, as soon as those words left my mouth, that they would be the death of me. "Because you're here."

Really? _Really_? Someboday, please, put me out of my misery! "Piss off, lecher." I grumbled, scuffing my feet as I trudged onto the beaten down track behind the bakery. "You're the last person I wanted to see in the entire universe. I only came here to let off some steam, and you're not helping."

"I want in."

I didn't stop to look at him. I just huffed a cloud of water vapour, and continued on walking. "Are you deaf, or just really, really stupid?"

"Erica." He grabbed me by the arm. Clearly this douchebag had never heard of personal space; choosing to completely ignore the fact that I was killing him with my mind. "I want to walk with you." And he didn't even have the decency to let me speak. Minus ten points for Slytherin. "Before you write me off completely... I'll be silent. I won't say a thing. You don't even have to talk to me. Just... just let me go with you."

"What if I say no?"

The thing is, we both knew he wouldn't let me say no. Even if I didn't say anything, he'd just follow me anyway.

"Ok. I get it. I won't chase you away." I glanced behind me at the fringe of firs that bordered Fey Valley, then back at Martin and his ridiculously pitiful expression. "Follow me if you want; I'm headed in that direction. No 'buts', no nothing, capiche? Those are the rules. If you tear your pant-suit it's your own bloody fault."

The forest was supposed to be a scenic escape.

With Martin trudging along at my heals, the only feasable description was: plain awkward.

"Why do you hate me so much?"

And, because it was him, he just _had_ to break his promise. He just had to nit-pick and get on my nerves. "You're talking, Martin." I warned, taking an immediate right turn, leaving behind the remnants of the footpath. The higher we ascended, the deeper the snow, and the more it collected in my boots. "So much for not saying a thing."

"I need to know, Erica. Don't ignore me."

Finally, I stopped; not for his sake - but because he had made me so angry that I couldn't even move. "What do you think?"

"I don't know what to think!" And now he was raising his voice, too. Fantastic. "No matter what I say or do, you're attitude never changes. It's like there's this barrier between us..."

And, as soon as those words left his mouth, it was just static - like a badly tuned radio. That's what it was like, talking to him - like he was some sort of mechanical creation that spouted out the occasional witty remark; forever incapable of saying anything with feeling. He lacked _feeling_.

But, the likeliness is, if I ever told him that, he either wouldn't understand or wouldn't care. It's like asking a dog to speak fluent Japanese. Impossible. "Every time I try to find common ground, you push me away."

"Then why the hell do you like me, Martin?"

"I don't know."

"I think that deserves a round of applause." My eyes widened, body swerving around so suddenly that I almost lost my footing and created a foot-deep snow angel. Smooth. "Sorry to interrupt your lover's spat." The eavesdropper nodded to a completely un-phased Martin. "But I need to borrow your scraggly, little pet."

"How the hell did you find us?" One stalker was enough... but two stalkers? _Two?_ Are you kidding me? "This isn't exactly the main Hight Street, or am I mistaken?"

"The trees are cardboard, and there's a camera recording there, there... wait... _and_ over there, too." My knuckles twitched with the urge to punch him. He noticed, and cracked a devilish smile. "Of course not. I just like to hang out here, because it's quiet and secluded. At least, I thought so, until my peace and quiet was rudely interrupted by a loud, obnoxious married couple. If you hate each other so much, just get a divorce. You'll be doing everyone a favour."

"Who...?" Martin said, almost as if he was trying a little too hard to look surprised.

"I'm the man she's cheating with." Stalker number two flashed number one a cocky grin.

That was it. That was where I drew the line. "Shut the hell up, Ly-mmpf!" Wide-eyed with wonder and confusion more at myself than the hand that was presently smothering my mouth, I went limp with shock.

"Don't blame yourself. She just can't get enough of me." My captor's voice was pure silk with a fatal edge. It held a darkness that made my blood run cold and hairs rise on my skin.

Martin watched us, unfaltering. It was almost frightening. Almost as frightening as the demon that held me in his arms. Then he left without a word. If that wasn't weird, then I was a flying elephant.

A gloved hand tilted my chin up, the smooth leather caressing my skin. "It looks like you know my name after all."

I said nothing, not out of spite or lack of a witty remark... my mind was literally blank. The only sound I could make was a muffled agreement.

"Say it."

"Why?" Starting to recover, I met his eyes, searching his expression for something... anything... and finding nothing.

Maybe he had assumed I'd just do as he said because he could gut me without a second thought; and, to be fair - if I wasn't so confused - I might have. Note the key word: _might_.

"Because you said so?"

His eyes never left mine, continuing to watch me expectantly. It was almost as if... everything that I said - everything that wasn't his name - he couldn't hear. Or chose not to.

And then I'd never get to go home and have that hot bath. "Lysander." I breathed.

It felt good, saying his name; like somehow, some part of me had been waiting for the chance to feel that one word on my lips. It felt so familiar... so warm.

After that, I remember his smile.

The rest is black.

* * *

**A/N: 'If you go down to the woods today, you're in for a big surprise' - original title. As you can see, it was way too long. But, because I quoted it from a song, I changed the chapter title to the title of the song. Clever, no?**

**Does anyone remember the lyrics? After the second line, it all goes a bit fuzzy. We used to sing 'The Teddybear's Picinic' in assembly in KS1 (aka First Form/Kindergarten up to second/first grade (can never remember which it is)). Ah, those were the days :')**

**Thanks for reading x**


	4. Liar Liar

Was I dead?

No. I was breathing. Just.

The shallow rise and fall of my chest was evidence enough... but still - everything was numb. Everything was cold. Everything was white.

But I wasn't white.

The trees weren't white.

But white was everywhere. A brilliance that burned when I tried to open my eyes. It was so pure. So raw. So terribly, terribly raw. And I hated it.

Lysander.

Where was Lysander?

"Lysander!" I croaked, cringing at the sound of my own voice.

"Lysander?" I repeated with less vigour, feeling the nausea coming in a rush as I pushed myself to my feet.

Bad idea.

Every inch of my body felt like I had just been smashed with a battering ram from head to toe.

Helplessly, I collapsed against a tree, trying desperately to keep myself upright. I had no idea where I was… one reason why you don't follow a murderer deep into a forest.

I was stupid to treat him like a normal guy.

Lysander would never be normal.

A dull pain seared in my chest when I realised that I didn't like that… I didn't like it one bit.

The crunching of feet against the snow caught my attention. I turned, I stumbled, I fell to my hands and knees - and when I looked up there was only disappointment.

It wasn't him. He was gone.

False hope only makes emotional pain worse. My heart felt like it would stop beating. "Martin…"

"Erica! Shit!" He darted towards me, helping me to my feet. He was so warm... so, so warm. "I leave you by yourself for a little bit, and you just run off! Are you insane? You're hurt! That was so stupid… so stupid…"

"I'm... fine, Martin." I asserted, pushing him away.

I fell again. _God_, _today is so not my day. _Martin wasn't going to let go of me this time.

"You aren't fine! You are anything but fine! Look at you, you're covered in scratches, bruises and blood." I lowered my head in horror, only to find that my once grey duffle coat had become a deep burgundy. "You can't even stand up without my help!"

"Martin..."

"I should have never left you with him."

"You think that _Keith_ did this?" I knew I didn't sound covincing, because I had reached the same, gritty conclusion.

There was no other explanation. I knew he had done this to me, but for some reason, I couldn't accept it. The bastard had messed with me, and now I couldn't stop thinking about him.

Maybe this - whatever this was - was him telling me to keep my distance… or maybe he had finally decided to let me go. Maybe he had finally decided to get rid of me.

_Ha. Sucker. It'll take more than that to kill me._

"We have to get you to a doctor-" Martin was already carrying me in his arms, out of the forest. He wanted to be my hero, and as much as I admired him for it, I so did not want him to.

"Put me down."

"I'm sorry… what?" Martin stared at me as if I had just scalded him with boiling water.

"Put me down, now, Martin. I can't go with you." I beat him in the chest when he didn't. He just carried on walking. "I'll be fine by myself, but I don't think I'd be able to cope with the gossip if people spotted us together outside school."

"Don't mind them, they're just jealous."

"That's exactly why I'm worried. God only knows what they will do to me when you aren't around, if they think that we're a couple." Martin shook his head angrily, keeping up his pace. "Martin, please! Let me down. This won't kill me but everyone else will."

"Erica, you're being ridiculous."

My fists continued to beat against him. I was getting tired, and sooner or later, if he didn't put me down, I wouldn't have enough energy to make it anywhere. "Please." I begged, tears starting to form in the corners of my eyes.

"You're hurt, Erica." He scolded me as if I were a small child. He didn't have the right to do that - he hadn't earned it. "I'm not going to risk your life because you got a little stage fright."

"Stage fright! You think this is about stage fright?" If my voice hadn't been failing, I could have damaged his hearing screaming, but I wouldn't have cared. I was so angry that I was crying. How could he not understand?

But it didn't matter anymore, because the exhaustion crept over me like a dark monster. It burrowed itself in me, draining any morsel of energy I had left, leaving me unconscious in Martin's arms.

Actually, I had been thankful that he had found me - if he hadn't then my nightmare could have become a reality. But behind all the glitz and glamour of a certain person, under the heavy influence of money, I had this inexplicable aversion to Martin. As if, sunconciously, something was telling me to stay away if I knew what was good for me.

It's a shame that I didn't.

* * *

The glare of the overhead light was an unpleasant echo of my previous... err, situation.

When I had finally regained enough consciousness to take in my surroundings, I realised - to my horror - that I wasn't at the local general practitioner. No. I should have known he would have taken me to his family's private ward.

I decided I didn't like white anymore; not when everything was covered with it. Crisp and intrusive, a little like death.

Voices echoed around me, making my head spin. I could almost taste my pulse at the back of my throat...

"Miss Marshall." That was my name, wasn't it? They were calling my name.

The doctor leant over me, smiling. She was a very striking woman with dark skin and bright amber eyes. The combination seemed weird, but I couldn't speak, so I didn't get to comment on it. Bully for me.

"The morphine will wear off completely in a few more hours - all your injuries have been stitched up. You should be good to go." She was too nice. Everything she did stunk of ulterior motives.

Money, most likely.

"A car will be here to pick you up in a few minutes. Soon, you'll be back in the safety of your own home." She had missed out a condescending 'isn't that great?', but I could almost hear her thinking it.

"Wh-what about the morphine?" The doctor froze. She hadn't expected me to talk back at her. Let alone under a drug induced daze. And me? I was surprised, too. I didn't even care about the morphine. Heaven knows why I said it.

I don't think she had planned for this scenario, because she simply backed out of the room, claiming that she had 'other business' to attend to.

As she left, a figure emerged from a dark corner in the room.

Martin.

Who would've thought it?

"What happened?" He asked. He wasn't even trying to be friendly now. This was serious Martin with an agenda. I laughed inwardly at the idea.

"I don't know… I was unconscious." I answered, as honestly as I could. There was no point in lying, but I could bend the truth

"-Because, it looks like you were attacked by some sort of animal." I shuddered slightly. Animal? "You see, all the scratches and bruising," he ran his hand over my arm, over the stitches. Deep scratches. "The doctor said it looked like there had been some sort of struggle. Are you sure you don't remember anything?"

"No." I insisted, noticing that his eyes were now latched onto my neck in wonder, and fear.

It made me aware of how uncomfortable it felt, and I hissed when Martin's fingers caressed the area just above my clavicle. All that time, I hadn't even noticed the otherworldly pain was coming from that spot. The only explanation was that I had been bitten by something with fatally sharp teeth. "What… what is that?"

Martin's scowl came into focus now. It was the scary Martin that I didn't recognise. "-Like I said before, they said that you were attacked by some sort of animal… fortunately, the bite doesn't look too deep. They disinfected the wound and covered it up with a bandage... but that's all they could do. You'll have to wait for the wound to heal by itself."

If I could have shrugged my shoulders, I would have, but it hurt too much. At the beginning, I was surprised to find out that I had even been bleeding.

"You don't feel… faint do you?"

"Faint?" I repeated, uncertain of whether I had misheard.

"Otherwise you would have to be put on iron supplements and a protein diet. Severe blood loss is no laughing matter, and if you collapse as soon as you leave, then I would never forgive myself." I shook my head too quickly, clutching the bed linen as my hands balled into fists. He sounded so ridiculous, giving me the whole medical song and dance. It was like he actually, genuinely cared; but I didn't want that. "That's good."

Good. Just which part of my situation was good?

"Do you want me to call home, and tell your granddad?" I refused to give him Brownie points for knowing about my family situation. Anyone with his influence and money could have done background research easily... but still, it was nice not having to explain myself.

"No. I think he could do without the shock." I avoided his piercing gaze, cold sweat beading on my forehead. Under the spotlight, I was a nervous wreck, and he didn't seem to want to dim it down for me. Some knight in shining armour, huh? "The less he knows, the better."

Martin searched my expression. Still scowling. Still scary as hell. To me, at least. "You really think he won't notice?"

"I'll tell him what he needs to know, when the time comes. Nothing more, nothing less."

"You need to tell him, Erica."

I didn't like that, right now, Martin thought he was better than me. You see, just because he had money and power and, at this moment in time, was a perfectly able-bodied person, he thought he had higher moral ground.

Well, he could piss off.

"When the time comes, Martin."

* * *

They were going to unload me from their own private ambulance on a gurney. I had refused to go anywhere near it. I could still walk. Sure I needed a little help, but I wasn't severely handicapped because I had been bitten. It just made breathing a little less comfortable.

As soon as I got back, my granddad noticed the bruising and scratches… and the blood, and I had to lie and say that I had a nasty accident involving some of the equipment they were using at a social event that I didn't go to. Being as vague as was humanly possible.

Martin was angry at me for lying - but I did what I had to. I didn't think Granddad had enough juice left in him to take in the reality of it all. Besides, any anxiety he had was hidden behind his thick rimmed spectacles. They reflected too much light for me to see his expression, to see what he was thinking. Maybe he did care, but I'd have liked him not to.

One thing was for sure, though: I didn't like not being able to see into his eyes. It made him feel further away... less... _real_.

I left him standing the bottom of the stairs, while I staggered to the top, resisting the urge to look over my shoulder at him. If he caught even a glimpse of my expression as I reached the top, I would be bombarded with a sea of questions. My poker face was terrible. End of.

But I wasn't surprised to find Lysander reclining on my duvet covers, mindlessly flicking through the novel that had been perched on my bedside for a while.

He didn't look up when I came in, but he did, at least, acknowledge my presence. "Oh… you're back." He sounded half-hearted when he spoke, like he hadn't just almost killed me.

"You leave me to _die_, and that's all you can say?" It didn't sound quite as accusing when I was wincing with pain, but it was good enough for me.

"You weren't going to die." He stated matter-of-factly.

"Then why did you leave me there?" Tears of frustration streamed down my cheeks. Lysander was going to have to choose his words very, very carefully.

"If I had stayed, your knight in shining armour would have accused me of sexual assault or attempted murder." _That_ didn't sound unreasonable, but I still felt offended that he hadn't taken me with him. As if he had read my mind, he then added, "I couldn't take you with me, for the same reasons."

"-But you _did _do this, didn't you?" Lysander didn't say anything. "That's why you couldn't stay… you were going to kill me weren't you?" He paled as I attempted to rip off the gauze to show him my wound. His hands clamped down on mine and I writhed under his grip. "You set some sort of animal on me - and when you thought it had done enough damage you fled the scene of the crime. You're always running away you criminal!"

"Erica, is everything alright?" Granddad's voice echoed up to my room, and Lysander sent me a menacing glare before clamping his hand over my mouth.

"Damn it!" He hissed, his clutch tightening as he retreated to the window, with me in tow. "Look what you've done, you idiot! Now we're going to have to do this the hard way." The window swung open as I heard my granddad's footsteps drawing closer. The door opened, and we tumbled backwards… into the alleyway. And suddenly, my life flashed before my eyes. If I could have screamed, I would have, but my brain had gone into security lockdown, as unresponsive as ever.

To my astonishment we never hit solid ground but, from the change in direction of the wind, I could tell that we were no longer falling. He was running.

He was kidnapping me. Holy _Scheiße_.

As he removed his hand from my face, I opened my mouth to scream, only to find myself winded by the impact of his shoulder against my stomach.

He was carrying me like a potato sack, the bastard! "Let me go!" I panted, ramming my fists against his spine. He kept moving, oblivious to my protests. "This is kidnap! I could very easily get you arrested."

"You and what army, sweetheart?" He laughed, as if he weren't moving at all. He wasn't even breaking a sweat. "I thought the whole point of kidnap was ransom. The victims just have to wait until they get bailed."

I screamed, for all the good that would do me.

"If you don't calm down soon, I'm going to have to make you." That shut me up.

We had stopped moving, and I felt him slide me off his shoulder, giving me one last look. We were hanging from the fourth story of some house that I had never seen before, in the middle of nowhere. Without warning, he opened the window and flung me inside.

I landed flat on my back on a mattress (good aim), the force pushing me, and the material beneath me, backwards. My head impacted against the hard surface of a solid wood headboard, causing my hands to instinctively check for damage. Just how strong was he?

"My intentions were never as simple as kill and run." He said as he slid through the window, closing it behind him. "In fact, that incident was a spur of the moment thing - I hadn't planned for it to turn out like that."

"Like what? The fact that you didn't manage to finish the job?" I snapped, chucking a pillow at him. It fell to the ground before it even got within a metre radius of him.

"Were you even listening to a word that I just said?" He asked, glowering threateningly at me, advancing on me like some horrid creature of the night. I stared at him like a child would stare at the thing under his bed, when they find out it really does exist. His eyes glittered with killer intent. Part of me knew he wouldn't seriously hurt me, the other half wasn't so sure.

"Yeah. I did, and what difference does it make?" I was practically hysterical, drawing the sheets towards me as a knee-jerk reflex to shield myself from the monster, drawing ever closer. "What you did still counts as assault, asshole! Even if I didn't die, and you knew that someone was going to find me - if you hadn't followed us, then I wouldn't have to argue with Martin's parents over whether they wheel me into my house on a stupid _gurney_!"

"If you think I followed you, you're sorely mistaken." He drawled, juxtaposing my anger with his blatant amusement. "It's not my fault that we happened to cross paths. You can't even prove that any of your injuries are my fault. You're just gripping at straws because you're angry and tired. Or am I mistaken?" I stood up, and reached out to slap him, only to be pushed down against the bed. I couldn't fight him - even less so when I was injured, and that drove me insane.

"JERK!" I roared, struggling to break free under the weight of his upper body. Because he was stronger and he simply could, he smirked at me, further proving my point.

"You know my name now, so use it." Lysander teased, letting go of me _finally_. I would have pummled him shitless, if my body hadn't been aching from aggravated injuries. "Lie still, and recover like a good girl."

"What if I don't want to?"

"I'm afraid you don't get a choice in the matter." With that, he disappeared through the door and locked it.

_Yep. You're a big, fat jerk_, I thought.

* * *

**A/N: thanks for reading - sorry about the re-update, I have my reasons...**


	5. Dream Sequence

"Why me?" I asked myself repetitively, rolling off the mattress that had somehow found it's way onto the floor. My eyes darted around the room, my mind spinning with wild thoughts. Fact: I had never been this scared in my life. Death seemed like a blissful escape when my mind conjured up all the wonders that Lysander had in store for me. Which limb would disappear first? What colour would my blood be when I die?

"If you don't eat your food, I'll force feed you."

"Why me?" I grumbled (for the umpteenth time), my voice muffled by fabric as I rolled onto my front. Clearly unimpressed, Lysander grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled. I wanted to scream, but I could only cry silently.

"Do you _want_ to be force fed?" He hissed darkly. It was more of a threat than a question; but then again, what normal person kidnaps people for the hell of it? "If you really can't physically eat, then I could always cut a hole in your stomach and stuff it in that way."

The mental image made me gag with discomfort, my eyes widened with fear. He could do it, if he wanted to. That was the scary part.

"Just joking." He added monotonously, deciding to let me go. For now.

"You're a sick bastard!" I spat. Any feelings I had developed towards him had evaporated in the past few hours. Why did I have to make things difficult and chose the murderer who was more likely to rip my heart out and place it on a mantel-piece like a trophy - instead of a popular, attractive and wealthy guy? If Martin had any ulterior motives, I was fairly certain that they wouldn't involve my mutilation. "How long do I have left?"

"You make it sound like I would know." I sent him a disbelieving glare before burying my head deeper into a black comforter. "Sorry to rain on your parade, but I don't plan on killing you. It's your fault that you're here in the first place."

"Oh! That's new. It's my fault that you decided to let yourself into my room and kidnap me. It's my fault that you nearly killed me." He just rolled his eyes and walked away. I had a gut feeling that Lysander would probably come up with an excuse for consecutive slaughter on the day the police finally catch him. "Can't you treat me like a normal person?"

"I thought I was doing a pretty good job."

"Normal people don't get kidnapped. Normal people don't get confined into someone's bedroom. Normal people don't get force fed, you twisted scum."

"Well that just proves that you aren't normal." I had nothing to say in response. I hated it when somebody else got the last word… but I knew when I had to give up. He made himself comfortable on the arm chair in the corner of the room. I knew he was watching me, even if most of his face was hidden in shadow - his eyes still glittered in the muted light.

It had all happened way too fast, and now I was trying desperately to reason my way out of it. I had no idea what Lysander had in store for me, and whether I would live or not. If I hadn't asked him to kiss me, maybe this wouldn't have happened. On the other hand, if I hadn't asked him to kiss me, I would probablt be dead.

Just the thought of it made my blood run cold. He could have killed me without flinching. Without feeling anything. "I have to go - and I expect you to finish what's on your plate_ before_ I get back, if you know what's good for you."

"Good riddance." I muttered, slumping on the window seat. It was so quiet that I could hear his ghost-like footfall as he padded across the walnut boards, the click of the door as it shut.

How many hours had it been?

For all I knew, it could have been days since I last breathed in fresh air. At the moment, my lungs were clogged with dusty air.

I slithered away from the seat, combing fingers through my hair, matted from several hours of sleep and banter with a serial killer.

What did he expect me to do, anyway? Eat my food and then lie prostrate on the bed until he returned? Preposterous. I sniggered at the mental image.

He was sorely mistaken if he thought I would play the obedient, little dog.

Then my stomach growled, filling the reticence... and suddenly the beef stroganoff didn't look so bad after all. I picked up the aged, silver spoon and stirred it, scooping up a mouthful and shovelling it into my mouth.

It tasted burnt.

But I was hungry, and it was going to have to suffice.

It could do with some salt... but I had the funny feeling that, if I asked Lysander, he'd probably shoot me a weird look and ask me what salt is. That, or he would pretend not to know what it is, and keep it hidden because he'd be afraid that I might use it as sme sort of weapon against him. Or something like that.

I don't normally get cooked for by kidnappers, so I'm not sure of the standards; but for someone who wasn't even trying to make a decent meal for me, it wasn't half bad.

Afterall, how could I complain? It was my cooking that was so dreadfully sub par.

I didn't finish it, though. Not out of spite for te chef, but purely because he didn't know how to measure out portions. There was enough stroganoff for three starving Russians. I kid you not.

Leaving the rest to cool and collect flies on the window sil, I slumped on the floor in a heap.

What do normal captives do? Live in fear of the arrival of their captors? But, somehow, I wasn't scared. I knew I probably should be, but something told me that there was more to my being here than that. The hard part was figuring out what that was.

In the end, I curled up on the bed, after checking the door, several times, to see if it would unlock. Several, because you could never be sure. That, and I was gradually becoming desperate.

Then, suddenly, I got a dreadful, dreadful idea.

I darted towards the window, fingers fumbling frantically over the latch; tugging, tugging, until it finally popped open.

We were on the second floor, three stories from the ground beneath us. Was I going to risk it? No, a better question is: Did I have any choice?

Well, obviously this had played out better in my head, because I hadn't expected to be caught by said captor with one leg dangling out of the window.

We exchanged looks for what felt like forever before I managed to break the stoney silence. "Back so soon?"

"I thought you'd get bored." He smirked, stalking towards me. My face paled. "Clearly I was mistaken."

"Oh! No... I'm _very bored_." I corrected, sounding like a complete and utter dimwit, wincing as the words left my mouth. "You know... I'm just stretching my legs..."

"Out the window?" He was standing directly infront of me, now.

"... Yeah. That." I nodded, choking on my words slightly.

"How about I help you?" His hands slid under my arms, lifting me in such a way that I had to grip onto his biceps; my face flushing beet-red. "Out or in?" He asked, suddenly deadly serious.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Out, then?" He loosened his grip, both my legs dangling above the garden below. Nails now digging into his biceps I let out a terrified yelp.

"In! _In_!" I shrieked hysterically, watching his lips contort into a satisfied grin.

He set me down on the bed, returning to his armchair avec book.

When he wasn't looking, I shot him a dirty glare.

"Behave." He warned. "Unless you want the express trip to the ground floor."

He couldn't have noticed, right?

* * *

When I finally regained consciousness, I was alone. Again. I hadn't even realised I had fallen asleep; not that there was anything else to do.

Victims don't get first class treatment - that's common knowledge; so I shouldn't have expected it. However, it was difficult not to nit-pick. It was difficult to sit still and do nothing for hours just because he expected to.

Because he expected me to, I chose _specifically_ not to.

Trying my luck, I decided to try the door again - to see if it would work this time. It wasn't exactly a master plan, but it was all I had. What with no ventilation system and a thirty foot drop, I didn't have many other options. Tying up sheets and dangling them out the window, literally went out the window when I discovered he had removed any and every potential escape tool from my grasp.

The door clicked open.

He had thought of everything... but he had been sloppy. Leaving the door unlocked? What sort of idiot does that?

However, there was one flaw with my methodology: as soon as I stepped out, I found myself in a smaller, rectangular room.

Of course there was a door... there was only _one _door... but it was locked, too.

I gulped, swallowing a massive lump in my throat that I got when something bad was about to happen.

There was footfall on the other side of the door. Lysander's muted footsteps accompanied by the soft tap, tap of a small woman.

My heart wrenched. _Another woman_?

There was no sound apart from the rustling of clothes, and the creaking of a chair.

Fighting the urge to bang on the door and beg for help, or run away and pretend I hadn't heard anything; I knelt so that my eye was level with the keyhole and I watched.

She was straddling his lap, in nothing but a thin camisole and a shockingly tiny skirt, bending over him.

It made me want to be sick, watching them. It made me want to break in there and rip all her pretty brunette hair out. It also made me want to punch Lysander in the gut for ever touching me with his filthy hands.

The girl let out a strangled sigh, her body going limp, and I choked on my own breath.

I couldn't watch. I couldn't watch. I couldn't...

_THUMP_

... watch? Her body collapsed in a crumpled heap on his lap, rolling lifelessly onto the floor, the smell of blood filtering in from under the door.

I couldn't see his eyes... his face... just his torso, and the deep red patch on his shirt.

He licked the blood off his fingers, smearing it across his face; and I watched in horror - transfixed by the image, but fighting back the urge to wretch all over the floor.

He was a monster.

A real monster.

Just what kind of crap did he slip me in my food?

* * *

**A/N: again, dramatic changes. Please don't kill me. I mean well.**

**thanks for reading! x**


	6. A Common Misconception

"I'm going home." I announced, hands on my hips. After a few hours of good speculation, and careful planning, I had decided that making a statement was the safest option, because he couldn't say 'no'. Well... he could. But a statement was a statement. If I said I was going home, then at some point (somehow) I was going to get back to my house. Hopefully unscathed.

"Okay then." Lysander ignored me, engrossed in litertature. Jerk.

"_Okay then_?" I mimicked sceptically, having expected him to put up more of a fight. "Is that _all_ you have to say?"

"If you wanted to go home, you should have just said something." He noticed my baffled expression, "… but seeing as you didn't, I thought you were enjoying my company. Apparently not."

"-But _you_ brought me here!" I retorted, angrily. "I was taken against my will! It's not like I stalked you, and let myself in!"

"I'm not saying you did."

"Then what are you saying? Because I don't understand you." He sat pensively for a few seconds, before shrugging non-comittally and returning to his book. He had nothing left to say, and I had nothing left to add, much to my displeasure. I still had the image of the dead girl floating through my mind… and to make things worse, I was jealous of her, that she had been touched by him… that I wasn't the special victim anymore. "Was she… your girlfriend?"

At that, he looked up at me, his eyes searching my face - for what, exactly, I don't know. He probably thought I was pulling his leg. I wasn't, but that wouldn't stop him from thinking it. "What are you talking about?"

"Erm… then... do you have a girlfriend?"

"No." He snapped his book shut, and turned to face me. I was beginning to get on his nerves, and he wasn't afraid to show it. Personally, I would have been surprised if Lysander was afraid of anything; though, it was an irrevocable fact that I was terrified of him. Everything he did and said… and ate… they all sent chills down my spine - not that I had ever seen him eat anything… normal. For all I knew, that girl could have been his meal.

"Then who was she? The girl that you killed. The one on your lap."

"I'm sorry, is this some sort of private joke? Last time I checked there was no dead girl on my lap. See for yourself." He gestured to empty space. I shifted feet, fiddling with the hem of the shirt I had been wearing. Most people would be uncomfortable being ridiculed full stop, but I was starting to feel it now. It was torture. Another reason for the sudden bout of fidgeting nervousness was that I didn't know how long I had been wearing my clothes for, and I wanted to put on a new pair of underwear. I also needed to pee. "Do you need me to take you to a doctor to have your head checked out?"

"No." I retorted, dragging out the 'o' - also, admittedly, feeling a little idiotic. "There was a girl on your lap. A dead girl."

I probably sounded like a lunatic to him, now that I think about it. "Whatever you say, sweetheart."

An awkward silence ensued, compromised of me standing in the middle of the room, looking stupid, staring at him. There was nothing else to look at. He fascinated me, even when his annoyance was rolling off him in large waves of discontent. "err..."

"What?" He snapped. I flinched, fisting my shirt into a ball.

"I want to go home."

"Then go."

"But I don't know the way out. And I need to use the bathroom." The incredulous look on his face said it all.

"You want me to go with you to the toilet?" I bit my lip, at a loss for words. "Not that I wouldn't mind, love, but you're not two. I would have assumed you were potty trained, and perfectly capable of doing it on your own." That made me blush beet-red, and bow my head in shame.

What came out of my mouth next was a muffled whisper. "I can. It's just... I don't know where either the exit or the toilets are. I was hoping you'd show me." It sounded stupid when I said it, and part of me worried that he hadn't heard - but the exasperated sigh that followed was my reassurance.

Lysander didn't really say anything else. He simply gestured me to follow after him, and I did.

At that point, I had lost interest in where we were going. I just watched him moving ahead of me, as if elegance was second nature - while I stumbled along behind him, through the dark. I started to consider whether that was a legitimate reason to have barely any light in the halls: it saves energy, and you can show off how skilled you are.

Bully for my unskilled, clumsy person as I tried to keep up with his pace.

The toilet was a humble airing cupboard space with a sink and, of course, a toilet. Apart from toilet paper, a toilet brush, and a bar of soap at the sink, it was empty. Completely impersonal. The light that flickered overhead brought out the dullness of the flaking, off-white wall paper.

Lysander was waiting for me outside, leaning against the wall. Even if he wasn't with me, I was convinced this was the next level of intimacy between us. Butterflies beat angrily against the walls of my stomach, tickling my cheaks pink. I craved him, damn it. I wanted to kiss him again.

Shaking my head, to snap myself out of it, I turned away from my reflection in the aged mirror and stepped through the door.

"You took your time." He said.

"I was thinking." I said.

I didn't get a response.

To be perfectly honest, talking about how long I had spent in his bathroom wasn't exactly a great conversation topic. Original, maybe, but incredibly awkward.

Within several minutes, we were standing on the porch outside the main entrance, and I was left wondering how I had arrived there while Lysander made his way to the black car parked in the drive. I hadn't moved an inch.

He turned to me, and waved me over, but it took a few seconds before my brain registered the signal and sent the message to my legs. I pushed forward, towards him, uncertain as ever. Our eyes met, and right then, I wished they hadn't.

"After you." I hesitated, not wanting to scratch the paint on the car door, in fear of what he might do to me. "God, do I have to do _everything_ for you?" He yanked the car door open and shoved me onto the passenger seat, before hopping in the other end. I could see in the reflection on the rear-view mirror that he was exhausted… and slightly paler. His eyes were murky brown - very nearly red - and his normally perfect hair was tousled and matted. It was impossible to describe the urge that I had to run my fingers through it and make it look perfect again.

He noticed my staring, and his grip tightened on the steering wheel, his jaw clenching.

"I'm sorry."

No reply.

He didn't even say goodbye when he dropped me off, he just drove away while I watched helplessly from outside my grandfathers store. Granddad hadn't noticed that I had been missing - bless his old heart - assuming that I didn't feel up to moving around with severe injuries, so you can imagine his shock when he saw me outside. Fortunately for me, he let it slide.

"Wait." Granddad said. So I waited. "Everything is alright, isn't it Erica?"

"Everything is fine." He nodded, albeit dubiously, as I made for the stairs. The sound of floorboards creaking turned my head. He wasn't looking at me, but at a request that someone had sent through the post. "What is it?"

"A friend of yours came by two days ago - before you left."

So he did know... "a friend?"

"Yes, Mr Wolfe's son… Martin? He came by to see if you were alright. I told him that you needed rest, so he asked if you would go over to his place for dinner. The kid seemed genuinely worried, Erica. You should go. It would be good for you." I said I would, because Granddad gave me no choice. Even so, stomach churned at the thought of having to go to his house… or manor, or whatever he called it. For all I knew, he could own a palace and I still wouldn't care. The only problem was that I had to show up looking 'presentable'. By their standards, I would still look like a hobo in my Sunday best.

Vexed at the thought of spending the evening in Martins company, I trekked up the staircase to my room, shrugging of the ruined coat. I was going to have to use up my savings to buy a replacement… what a bother.

My hands fumbled feverishly through my closet as I tried to distract myself. If anyone was a wreck, it was me. I was a loner that liked a murderer… and recurrently saw hallucinations of things that shouldn't exist… but somehow, they did; or at least, I believed that they did. Staring at myself in the mirror, I twirled in the dress that I thought looked alright.

The problem was that _I _thought it looked alright.

* * *

"You're here!" Martin tugged lightly on my wrist, pulling me in through the front door. Everything was over-sized, over decorated and over expensive - and there I stood, feeling completely out of place. Martin gave me a once over and then grinned childishly. "You look stunning, Erica."

"So, this is fine?"

"Why wouldn't it be?" I looked away quickly, worrying that I had said something wrong. Martin mouthed a silent 'Oh', then shrugged his shoulders dismissively, scratching the back of his head as a nervous reflex. "My parents… my dad isn't stuck up. You have nothing to worry about… you're our only visitor anyway." He could say that, but I wouldn't believe him. I was going to keep on my toes.

Everything in his house glowed with a certain brilliance, as if you were only fit to sit on the furniture if you were royalty. The faint scent of cigarette smoke hung in what I assumed was the living room. It was big enough to house twenty people comfortably. And it was just the living area. Jesus Christ, and Heaven above.

An old man with tan skin, alike Martin's, and slicked back hair, approached us with a welcoming smile on his face. His eyes were bright amber, and they glimmered in the light emitted from the chandelier that dangled above our heads. I say dangled, but it was large enough to hold five or more people easily, it was also large enough to be a weapon of mass distruction. But hey! I'm not complaining. It's their living room. They decide how they furnish it.

"This must be Erica," he held out a calloused hand towards me, and I took it shyly. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Edmund Wolfe, Martin's father. Deirdre and I have heard so much about you." He gestured warmly to the voluptuous woman that was approaching gracefully from the other side of the room.

"You have, have you?" I shot Martin a threatening glare, while his father left us to pour out drinks. It was too late to tell them that I didn't drink alcohol - why spoil their fun? I thought. It wouldn't kill me, would it?

As soon as Martin's father had gone, we were accompanied by the strikingly beautiful woman that I could only assume was his mother. They looked nothing alike, but it wasn't fair to pry. "Erica, this is Deirdre, my mother." She didn't hold out her hand. Instead, she gave me a once over and grimaced. _Oh, goody. This one likes me._

"Charmed." she dead-panned, keeping her distance. I nodded dutifuly, clutching onto Martin's arm because suddenly the room felt like a hurricane at sea - and Martin was the only life raft left.

Edmund returned, oblivious to his wife's evident disdain for me.

Martin pretended that he didn't notice it, trying to avoid eye contact with either me or mother dearest. Some life raft he was.

"I thought you said your parents weren't stuck up!" I hissed under my breath when we had put enough distance between them and us. "Your mum looks like she's about to have a fit!"

"Technically she's not my mum." Speechless, I blinked off my surprise before sighing, and releasing his dress jacket. Martin's dysfunctional family shouldn't have bothered me, because I wasn't supposed to care. If he thought I did, I would end up leading him on... and I didn't want that. So I didn't pat him on the back, or try to be sympathetic.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up something uncomfortable." But I did say I was sorry. Aren't I nice? Martin wasn't paying attention to me anymore, though. I was grateful, because I had already grown tired of trying to hold a conversation with him.

We were rescued by the dinner bell, and a new face. A face that was resembled both biological parents. I wasn't sure if I wanted to go through the whole song and dance of 'hi, how are you? What's your name?' again. I was starting to feel shy, or maybe that was just a combination of hunger and fatigue.

"Hi, I'm Aidan."

"I'm Erica." I had also lost interest in putting up a front, and didn't bother to smile. The pleasantries were boring me and I wanted food. "You must be Martin's brother?"

"You must be Martin's unrequited crush?" Martin glared at him darkly, but Aidan managed to maintain a smile that in any other situation would have been heartbreaking. Right at that moment, it was just about average. "No worries, no worries,_ bro. _She's not my type anyway." Martin's glower didn't disappear. Much like mine. So what if I wasn't his type? I could still dislike him and his attempt at witty banter.

Dinner itself was no safe haven either.

I found myself shifting uncomfortably underneath everyone's stare, because _everyone_ was staring. They were watching me carefully, to see if I would mess up and make a fool of myself… everyone including Martin. It made me feel like I was the main dish. I became even more restless when I realised exactly where Aidan was staring.

Fortunately, I had dressed reasonably modestly. "Martin told us about the accident." So that's what he called it? And here I thought he was going to say assault. "But from what we can see, you've made a remarkable recovery."

"Quite," Deirdre added, sipping at the deep red liquid in her glass. "The way Martin kept on badgering on about it, we might have thought it fatal. It's wonderful to see that you could make it to dinner tonight." I couldn't help but notice her patronising tone, and the scornful glower that Martin sent back at her. "We should make a toast to your good health."

"I... I only had a few minor flesh wounds... so I think a toast is unnecessary." My voice was cracking under the pressure, and my hand instinctively rose to the black choker around my neck, as if they had already seen right through me. Deirdre was wearing a look of mock disappointment as she swirled the wine in her glass. "Most of the damage was _only_ bruising and grazing."

"I think it's excellent that we could be of so much help," Edmund interrupted, trying to liven the atmosphere. "Some of the best medics in Fey Valley are on call for us. If anything happens in the future, you are always welcome here."

"You've done so much for me. I'm already indebted... I couldn't poss-"

"Consider this as us giving back to society." Deirdre purred, snapping her fingers for a waiter, the many precious gems on her fingers twinkling magnificently. "It's such a shame we didn't have an earlier introduction. We would have gotten on like peas in a pod." _In two separate pods, on separate planets_, I thought.

"Certainly. Any friend of Martin's is a friend of ours." I forced a smile, taking a bite out of the main course dish. It was delicious, but I would have been happier in the privacy of my own home with a humble battered cod; not sitting in uncomfortable, but exquisite chairs, trying to eat my way through a four course meal. I mean, _coq au vin_? Seriously? The menu had to be foreign, too?

Martin noticed how tense I was, and leaned closer, trying to calm me down. "I'm sorry, Erica. I didn't think it would turn out like this…"

"It's fine, Martin." I lied, glaring at the plate because I didn't want him to see just how unhappy I was. It seemed unfair on him, somehow. But when he put his hand ontop of mine and squeezed it, I slapped it away. He should have known not to do that. He should have known that there were boundaries I didn't want him to cross. I wasn't attracted to him, and we were definitely not friends. "I… just... I need to go to the bathroom."

"Oh, sure…" he shifted his seat so that I could get out, not that he needed to. An obese woman could have slid out of my chair with ease. "First on the left; once you get through the door, it's by the big counter." I didn't say thank you, or nod, any form of acknowledgement. I didn't even look over my shoulder, because the last thing I wanted to see was the look on their faces.

I'm a bitch. Deal with it.

"First on the left, huh?" I repeated, standing outside the door with the gilt, handcrafted handle and the intricate design - the thing that gave it away was the single door. Like I said before: over-sized, over-done and over-expensive. I liked a clean toilet, but this was just too much. It made me long for the simple, impersonal cubicle of a toilet at Lysander's house.

But it didn't matter, because I didn't actually need the toilet. Not really.

I had just gone here to get away from Martin, because it was the only place that he couldn't follow me into.

It reeked of incense, the floor was polished marble tiles, and the sink had various pots of things that were all completely foreign to me. I looked at myself in the mirror, trying to arrange my thoughts, to calm down. The incense was probably doing that more than me. I was never very skilled in the art of meditation; but I did know that breathing helped.

Taking that deep breath, I pressed my fingers against the door, feeling it glide effortlessly over the polished stone. What I was not expecting was to find somebody waiting to greet me on the other side. "What do you want?"

"Don't be like that," Aidan chided, grabbing my wrist to keep me from getting away. "I saw you watching me, Erica. Don't think I'm blind." I cursed inwardly, trying to get him off me, and failing. "And I've also seen how you react to Martin, too."

"What's it to you?" I snapped, wincing as he pushed me back against the wall, pinning my hand beside my head.

"No matter how hard he tries, you keep on rejecting him." He pressed himself up against me, so much so that the distance between our faces was becoming smaller and smaller. He was so much stronger, and I hated him for it. "It makes me want to have a go... see if I can break you in."

"What makes you think you have a chance?" I hissed, glaring up at him, continuing to test the strength of the hand that held my wrist. "You're no better than he is... in fact, you're so much worse."

"I like a challenge." Finally, finally he let go of me. Seizing the opportunity to make a run for it, I pushed against him and tripped. Stilletto heals weren't designed for me or polished floors. I even said a pretty word that I can't repeat when I found out I had sprained my ankle in the process. My dress had ridden up to mid thigh, too. Must've been my lucky day.

So I lay, like a starfish on their floor, while Aidan laughed, because trying to get up would inevitably lead to flashing him. That was the last thing I wanted to happen. I mean, who wouldn't laugh at me? It was downright hilarious. Only I couldn't see the funny side, and only I could radiate endless scorn for those who did.

Crouching down next to me, Aidan patted my shoulder, before pushing me over so that I was staring up at him. He smiled, offering a hand.

"No thanks." I growled, my hand striking him across the face.

Anger flashed in those abnormally coloured eyes, before he captured the hand that hath offended him, and pinned it above my head. I was angry, he was angry, the world was god damn angry, and we weren't afraid to show it. From a distance, it probably looked like we were doing some mildly violent, bordering erotic dance: you slap him on the face, then he pins you down; knees bent, arms braced, knee him in the crotch. All sung to the tune of _The Hokey Cokey_.

It brought a smile to my face, even if I had barely enough energy to fight back anymore.

The smile disappeared when his free hand started to tug at the material of my dress. "You can be difficult. It doesn't matter to me, I always get what I want one way or another." He breathed, his voice ever so slightly higher in pitch than before.

"Let go, damn it!" I yelled, trying desperately move him off me. "No!"

"No?"

"No." Either I was hallucinating again, or I heard _his _voice. My heart beat was thumping wildly as I strained to see where the voice had come from.

"Who the Hell are you?" Lysander emerged from the shadows, his eyes glittering in the dark. "I said: Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?"

"You have ten seconds to let her go before I permanently detach your arm." Lysander said. "Unless you want to die."

* * *

**I dunno how long it will take to upload the next chapter... I'll try a weekend thing and see how that works out. xxx thanks for reading**


	7. She Left Me

So, my knight in shining armour had finally come to my rescue, but why wasn't I overjoyed to see him? Well, as you may already know, I was gradually becoming more afraid of him each second, and I could tell from the look in his eyes that I was _not_ going to get off scot-free this time. In fact, if anything, the murderous intent in those deep red eyes was focused directly on me. "Get the hell out of my house!"

Lysander didn't even flinch. "If you don't want me to snap your neck, I suggest you move out of the way."

"You'll 'snap my neck', huh?" Aidan snorted. It would have been more convincing if there wasn't that morsel of uncertainty in the corners of his eyes. "Fine, have it your way. I won't stop you." Finally, he got to his feet, holding his hands up in surrender.

"I thought so." Lysander strode past him, his eyes flashing dangerously in the light. Praying for dear life, I backed away from him until my back impacted the wall.

I was trapped.

My mouth went dry with anticipation and fear as I cowered beneath him. "What are you so afraid of?" He asked softly, brushing his fingers against the material above the puncture marks. The throbbing pain returned, sending shockwaves through my body that made it hard to do anything at all. "Are you afraid of me?" He breathed against the shell of my ear, "-or are you afraid of what I'm going to do to you?"

Terror swallowed me whole as he pulled me out of the door, my feet moving by themselves. Originally, I had silently rejoiced at the thought of Lysander, my hero, coming to my rescue. As we exited the building, all I could do was try not to shit myself as my chances of survival were decreasing rapidly with every millisecond that we spent alone together.

If I didn't stay composed, I was going to cry. I was going to cry and beg for my life, because that was all my brain was able to process.

I shot Lysander a weary glance - my hands were sticky with a layer of sweat that had enveloped my entire body… all I could think about was what could happen… what would happen. Each heart beat was quicker, louder, pulsing through every part of my body, so much that I considered death from high blood pressure - it wasn't impossible, and back then even the slightest things felt like they might kill me. "Calm down."

Lysander stopped walking. His voice was careful, measured - it almost sounded concerned, but I was hysterical, and could easily be mistaken. Then he let go of me, and I had the chance to run.

But something told me that I wouldn't get very far.

Cautiously, my gaze met his through the shadow, taking notice of the absence of emotion on his face. I let myself step forwards, listening to the crunching sound that the gravel made beneath my feet, my hands cupping his devilishly perfect face.

"Do you trust me?" He asked.

"I don't trust you." I lied, feeling my eyes prickle with unshed tears. I was a big girl. Big girls don't cry. "I can't. You even said it yourself… I can't risk putting you first, not when the price is my life and everything I have strived for… everything that I love." I tried to make myself believe what I was saying was true, but deep down my words contradicted my feelings - the very feelings that I wasn't supposed to feel.

He said nothing, continuing to watch me with an intrigue that was completely inhuman. Like a predator watching it's prey. His hands rose to my face, wiping away tears with smooth thumbs. I felt his fingers trace my jaw, brushing over my chin, my lips.

I wanted him to kiss me.

But he didn't. All he did was chuckle, and remove his hand. "What do you want from me?" I asked. Wiping away another stray tear, and sniffing loudly. "Why do you keep coming back to me?"

"I wasn't intending on making a habit of it."

"Then don't treat me as if you're going to come back. leave me alone!" The last words came out louder than I had intended them to, triggering a fit of pathetic sobs. Even though he was within reach, it felt as if I would never be able to reach him. I could hear the voices in my head telling me that: _you're making the biggest mistake of your life. Run! Run away and don't look back!_ Somehow, I couldn't bring myself to leave him. My boring, uneventful life had already ended, and no matter how far I ran, that would never change. "If you hate me, then stop confusing me!"

"Do you hate me?"

"Stop it." I protested, pushing against him.

"Do you hate me, Erica?" He asked again. There was no feeling in his words, but he still asked anyway.

"No."

His grip loosened. It made me try to cling onto him, to stop him from going away... but I couldn't.

"You're a murderer." I said it like I hadn't really realised it before. Like it hadn't really struck me. I had ignored it. I had pretended it didn't exist because that one fact messed up my fantasy... what I pined for. He kept coming back to me, hypnotising me, but I only knew the shiny surface. One day, the darkness inside him would strike me.

Strike me dead.

Lysander stepped away from me, retreating into the darkness.

"Run." He said.

* * *

I couldn't touch the food on my plate at breakfast, or return the look of concern that granddad was giving me as I slipped quietly through the door. My mind had gone completely blank. I would just tell everyone that I was sick, and took the day off - they wouldn't care anyhow. Nothing could hold my attention long enough to distract my wandering thoughts.

Scuffing my feet against the floorboards, and knotting my fingers in the bed linen, I tried to preoccupy myself by tracing the patterns on the fabric while continuously firing off questions in my head. _Is he really going to kill me? Or is he going to disappear completely? What will happen to me once he's gone?_ All of these were excellent questions, however, they were all the questions that I didn't know the answers to.

I buried my face in a dent in my pillow, curling up into a foetal position, utterly motionless. The silence was unbearable, and it made it hard to believe that I had never noticed it before. I lived in a muted world - excluded from the place that I longed to be a part of ever since I was smaller. There was nothing tying me down apart from a few childish dreams, and the few friends I had made. If I could even call them friends.

My trance was broken by the mattress shifting under a weight at the end of my bed.

Half asleep and annoyed as hell, I groaned at the scumbag that had awoken me from my midday-dream. I might have expected Lysander, the Joker... or even Martin - but not Fiona. Trying to suppress my irritation, I forced a smile and rolled over, pulling the covers over my head. Fiona fought gallantly for them, before giving up, and whacking me over the head with a spare pillow. "I'm not letting you bunk off without me."

"I'm not bunking, Fiona. I'm tired, and that will only make me an easy target."

"-But I can't cope with spending a whole day at school knowing that you won't be there! It's boring enough without being able to talk to you - but knowing that I have to go through an entire day without you is unthinkable." She sat on my bed grumbling to herself, while trying to explain my importance in her life using peculiar gesticulating movements.

"I'm sure you would be just fine." I grumbled, burying my head in my pillow, only to have her fingers pry me out of bed again. We had a stare down - but seeing as she was actually awake, she had an unfair advantage. I lost, so I had to get up. Boo, hiss.

"Put on some clothes and freshen up." It was a reasonable request, but early in the afternoon, I was all for being as unreasonable as I possibly could. Bed was just so comfy, and you didn't have to please it. "You can't sleep all day. It's gross."

"I'm sorry I'm gross, then." I surrendered, getting to my feet and padding out of the room to the bathroom. Fiona didn't follow. She had made it her job to find adequate clothing for me. Knowing her, I should have been extremely worried. At least the leather skirt she had given me last year was hidden under the bed, so she couldn't find it. Thank God.

What she had chosen for me still managed to be just this side of risqué.

"No." I said. "If I wear that top, I have to at least have a vest underneath it."

"It's not meant to have a vest underneath it." She argued, holding up the almost see-through blouse. I had casually forgotten that I had that. Then she looked at my underwear and scowled. "But I see your point. Even I wouldn't want the public to see that my bra had ducks printed all over it."

That was mean. I had bought the undergarment because I thought it was cute. "Give it here." She complied, and I stuffed the skimpy material back into the recesses of my draw, replacing both the skirt and lace... thing... with frayed jeans and a plain grey sleeved shirt.

The look on Fiona's face was priceless when I pulled on the knitted sweater. "It's... brown."

"It's warm."

"It's ugly."

"You're not wearing it, so quit complaing." I snapped, starting to lose my patience with her.

"I'm the one who has to be seen with you." She countered, desperately trying to find a suitable replacement "I could always give you some of last season's outfits…"

"Thanks, but no thanks. I'm not some charity that needs your pity and last season's clothes. I'd much rather wear my ugly, brown sweater." She shrugged, looking slightly put out as we made our way downstairs. Granddad was up the front, so we snuck out the back. Teenage logic. Works every time.

* * *

We were back at the coffee shop again, and I was fiddling with a sugar packet while Fiona made idle chit-chat with the sexy employee. That winning smile would have got him employee of the month - but everything he did, the unsubtle looks, unnecessarily brushing up against my shoulder was just making me uncomfortable.

He clearly liked the attention that he was getting from Fiona - but I wasn't going to give in. And the worst part was, he seemed to like that, too. "I'm... I just need some fresh air." I mumbled, getting out of my seat. Fiona's eyes followed me, but it was evident that she wasn't prepared to come with me.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm not really sure." I shrugged, staring out of the window. It was raining again, and I didn't have an umbrella. "Anywhere, I guess."

Fiona flipped her auburn curls over her shoulder, grinning coyly at the boy infront of her before returning her attention to me. If anyone could pull off nonchalant and uncaring, Fiona could. I met it with dead eyes.

All I could think about was the night before.

And Lysander.

The rain hadn't let up. In fact, the downpour was probably heavier than it had been for a while. Any remaining snow or ice had completely gone - the streets sodden and gritty from the salts they had put down earlier in the week.

But it was still cold. It was still dark. It was still winter.

I huddled in an alcove, listening to the sound of the droplets impacting against the cobblestones, remembering the night that Lysander had arrived. A mid winter thunderstorm was unheard of because it was almost never warm enough. But it had happened. And it had been so terribly cliché.

"What are you doing, Erica?"

I looked up, through the wall of rain, at the figure standing infront of me. "Why are you out here? It's tipping it and you don't even have anything waterproof." Fiona was standing a few metres away, shivering. At times like these, I was glad I put practicality before my fashion sense. There's no point in looking good if you make yourself ill - that was one of my ground rules.

Naturally, she was getting soaked, so I made space for her under the shelter of the building. "I'm allowed to be worried about you, you know." She said, after a long silence.

I could see the shop attendant through the streams of water that streaked across the glass. He was no longer sitting at the booth, but moving through the store, cleaning up, taking orders, and occasionally stopping to watch us through the window. "I didn't realise you cared."

"Of course I do." She nudged me. It was supposed to be playful, but Fiona was the type who wasn't aware of her own strength. "I came all the way over here because I do care. But, even with that, I can't help feeling like you don't want me around you."

I said nothing, because there was nothing I could say that she wanted to hear.

The truth would break her heart, because she was right. I didn't want to be under that alcove, in the rain. I didn't even want to hang out with her, in the coffee shop, while she ogled the waiter. I wanted to be with a murderer.

"You… acted like it wasn't fun being around me, distancing yourself. You haven't smiled all day." She continued, leaning against the smooth sandstone wall. I kept my eyes fixed on some non-descript object in the distance. "See? You're doing it again. We rarely ever talk anymore, and I know it's not your fault - but when we do, you always look so distracted… like you're hiding something from me."

"I don't have anything to hide." I lied.

"Do you honestly expect me to believe that?" She shook her head, dismissing a thought; perhaps, trying a different approach. "When will you just admit it?"

I turned to face her then, meeting the hurt in her eyes. "Admit what?"

"Martin wasn't the only person that visited after your injury - obviously your grandfather forgot to mention that I was there too… I didn't tell Martin though, but I knew that as soon as he knocked on your door it was a lost cause. You weren't there."

"What are you talking about?" But I knew exactly what she was talking about.

"I saw you… and _some guy _falling from the window. I watched you disappear. Don't think I'll believe your crappy little stories like everybody else." Fiona jabbed an accusing finger at me. "You won't believe how worried I was about you! -And then when I came back, you kept pretending like nothing had happened, treating me like an outsider. I kept hoping you would confide in me, that you would trust me with something like that... but no. I guess I was wrong."

"I didn't mean to hurt you, Fiona." I said, facing her this time. Even when I was being sincere, she wasn't having any of it. She thought I was full of shit and, to be honest, I would have done exactly the same.

"But you have, Erica." She stepped out, back out into the rain. "And I don't think I can forgive you anymore."

So she left me, under the alcove, all by myself.

* * *

**A/N: As you may or may not have noticed, I have been doing some serious editing of the last seven chapters. Don't mind me, though.**


	8. Big Yellow Taxi

I couldn't feel anything.

Stumbling forwards through the empty street, my hands shook as I wrapped them tightly around me. I was losing myself, and I didn't know how to stop it. What was happening to me?

I had hurt Fiona, and I didn't feel a thing.

No guilt, no regret, just an unfathomable emptiness that left me feeling lifeless.

It had been hours since the rain had let up, the sky now a dark blue, street lamps flickering to life down the street, emitting an eerie, luminescent glow. Large puddles that lined the street reflected the light, glittering as they shattered each time I broke their surfaces.

People stared, whispered, and pointed; but I couldn't hear them. All I could do was move forwards

Spotlights of light lined the street back to my home, as I broke out into a run, my hair rippling behind me. I was a mess. I didn't have time to stop and look at my reflection. I didn't want to see the face of the stranger that I had become.

If this was growing up, then I wanted to stay a child forever. Forever young.

"Lysander…" A figure emerged into the orange glow, he looked tired. He looked different. I almost didn't recognise him. He was so pale... so beautiful, and I longed for him. Longed to be near him.

At that moment, I suddenly realised that, however subconsciously, I had been searching for him.

And now I couldn't get away.

'Run'. That simple, three letter word echoed through my head, my body - but my body refused to understand it, fought to stay in that spot. It fought against the electricity that pulsed through my veins. The adrenaline. The fear.

I couldn't move, I couldn't think, I couldn't breathe... all I could do was wait. Wait for him to come closer. Wait for death to approach me.

Everyhting that I liked about him was a big, fat lie. The part of him that hid behind his mask of teasing comments, offhand behaviour... his seduction. I only knew the mask, and because of that, I had become addicted.

I needed him. Damn it, I needed the lie. "Erica." He breathed. My heart skipped a beat, eyes wide. That was my name, but he said it like he was speaking through me, like it wasn't me. It was almost as if, in his eyes, I wasn't there. Not really. I was just a medium of communication.

But I didn't understand it.

I couldn't comprehend it, or the compulsion to stay. It was a part of my fascination become obsession. Touch was a part of it, yes, but I could almost feel him calling to me. I told myself it was in my head, that I was just crazy from standing in the cold for so long... but I couldn't make myself believe it.

Those red eyes stared back at me, alluding to our first encounter, when I understood that he could kill me. When I understood just how afraid I should have been all this time.

I'd tried to forget it. I'd tried to pretend that he was normal, because it seemed illogical. But this was far more real than anything before. "Run, Erica." I could hear the strain in his voice. His bloodlust. It made me want to scream, reminding me how terribly vulnerable I was. "Now." He hissed. "I don't think I can control myself anymore."

"I can't."

He advanced on me, taking his time like a predator stalking it's prey. It was so beautiful, but it's beauty was a lure. He was going to kill me.

I knew that.

I knew that, but I couldn't run.

The sick, masochistic part of me wanted him to hurt me, just as long as he touched me.

* * *

The next morning, I woke up only to find myself in the safety of my room, in my bed.

I even started to consider whether the day before had been a dream, until I realised I was still wearing my frayed jeans, long sleeved top and ugly, brown, oversized sweatshirt. That and I was lying on the covers, instead of under them. However, when I tried to remember how I got back, all I got was a killer headache.

School wasn't a lot better, either.

As always, I stared out of the window, my pencil lead pressing against the paper, lifting, then pressing down again. I was excluded from the chatter, and the laughter, sitting in my safety zone in the corner of the room, savouring the solitude.

Everybody had asked about the bandage around my neck - still there from the incident three days ago (fresh bandages, obviously). I hadn't taken it off yet, because I didn't want people to see the puncture wounds and start asking more questions. Martin would have given me hell for lying to so many people, but he was absent today, and I was grateful.

Fiona had been ignoring me completely, refusing to look at me when I walked by, and keeping her distance when she could. It was only fair, seeing as I had ignored her for the past year or so. I had convinced myself that I had done it with only the best of intentions, but I could understand why it had upset her. Even if I enjoyed being by myself... I was gradually coming to terms with the fact that I had liked being the centre of attention; and that I missed her constant efforts to talk to me, to cheer me up and make me smile - even when I insisted otherwise.

She still hadn't forgiven me yet. She probably never would, because if anyone could hold a grudge, it was Fiona.

Other than that, nothing else had changed... much. I was still desperate to get away from the eyes that watched, from the mouths that talked and from the ears that heard. They were inescapable. It made me want to bury my head in the ground every time they whispered, or stared. Someone always had the nerve to stare. Don't they realise that it's rude _and_ an invasion of my privacy? They probably thought it didn't matter if it was me.

On a higher note, I passed my English with flying colours, relieved that I wouldn't have to re-sit a year, or be forced to withdraw from school. Whoop-de-effing-do.

"I knew you could do it." Was the first thing Granddad said when I told him. His appraisal wasn't as gratifying as I'd hoped it would be - not that he had done anything wrong - I had just stupidly allowed myself to believe that it would dampen down my depression.

"It wasn't like I couldn't from the start - I just got a bit cocky and stopped trying."

"That's my girl." He patted my back, beaming down at me like the happiest Granddad in the world.

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that I lied to him. He believed that everything was back to the way it used to be - that I had rekindled my friendship with Fiona and that I was _happy_ now. He was sorely mistaken. "Damn it!" I cursed as I rested my head in my arms, listening to the rain drum against the windows.

It was on a day like today that Lysander had appeared; the same weather, but a different situation. I longed to see him walking through the door, I longed for him to argue with me, for him to persuade me that I deserved better. I wanted him to take me out of this Hell hole, but that could never happen.

He would probably kill me first.

BANG!

My breathing stopped as I sat up in my seat. The noise had come from upstairs... in _my_ room. Darting up the stairs at full speed, I slipped on my socks - an accident that was just waiting to happen. My grandfather called after me in bewilderment, reminding me that I would have to make up for the time off my shift by doing extra on the weekends.

I didn't stop to argue with him because I didn't give a damn.

It wouldn't matter as long as I got to see Lysander again.

I stood outside the door, trying to arrange my thoughts - trying to think of something to say that didn't sound stupid. I wanted him to be near me... I wanted him to kiss me again. My hands slid over the wooden door, my pulse quickening as my fingers enveloped the door handle. I pushed down, holding my breath, trying to be natural... but not wanting to rush at the same time.

But the room was empty.

He wasn't there.

I went over to inspect my window, as the wind slammed it against the wall. _I must have left it open_, I mused, latching it shut.

The disappointment was impossible to hide. My face had crumpled into a frown, and all I could do was feel cheated because I had gotten all worked up over my window impacting against the wall.

It was my fault.

And it was bloody painful, if not embarrassing.

As I lay back against my bed, I tried to convince myself that it would be okay. It would be like any normal day, and then he would come back at some point - and we would have our witty banter, and he would hold me close to him again... because he just had to.

_But what if he doesn't come back?_

I didn't want to consider it.

My eyes always wandered to the window expectantly, hoping that by some miracle, he would be waiting outside for me to let him in. Maybe it was because I couldn't afford to break another window? _Who gives a damn about that window! It looked better when it was broken! _

Even so, I was well aware that he didn't have to come back. I had no idea if he would even want to, because he never said what he was thinking. Murderers kill people - they don't make out with them in their bedrooms all the time... as much as I would have liked that to be true.

I buried my head in the pillow, attempting to distract myself. But Lysander had been my distraction. Lysander had been something new that I didn't want to part with.

A murderer. My saviour. Oh, the irony.

* * *

**A/N: Originally this chapter was called: You Don't Know What You've Got 'Til It's Gone - it was a mouthful, and it wouldn't even fit into the designated space allowed for chapter titles. It's now called Big Yellow Taxi - named after the song by Joni Mitchell of which, the lyrics for the chorus - if I'm not mistaken - are: "you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone." So that explains that random burst of insanity :) Thanks for reading x**


	9. Monsters Exist

Desperation does funny things to people.

Sometimes it makes them turn to cannibalism and eat each others' guts out... sometimes they kill their nearest and dearest to save themselves; and sometimes, sometimes they seek comfort in their worst enemies.

On table thirteen, with a cup of black coffee, I sat across from Martin. Willingly.

"This is rare."

He was right. It was rare. I never thought, in a million years, that I would find myelf in this situation. It's what happens when you take your friends for granted because of some stupid infatuation. Whatever happened to 'hoes before bros?'... or whatever the saying was supposed to be - I never really got the whole lingo-of-the-week thing.

But I wasn't just dejected because a murderer had come into my life, kidnapped me, returned me, saved me and then left me for dead. I was dejected because I had lost my only real friend in the process.

The one question I found myself asking, though, was: even if Lysander hadn't come along, would it really be any different?

Honestly, I'd never know. I don't think I wanted to know, either.

"Are you going to talk or are we going to sit in silence for however long you require my presence?"

Finally, exhaling heavily - realeasing some of that pent up tension - I looked at him. "I don't know, okay?" Was my pathetic excuse for an answer. "I haven't exactly figured out how I want this to play out yet. If you don't like it, then bugger off. I'm not going to stop you."

Or, maybe I just liked getting a kick out of Matin's hurt expression. "If I had known you were such a sadist, I probably wouldn't have bothered with you in the first place."

I glared at the table. It wasn't exactly discreet, either; I knew he was watching me.

"Whatever. That doesn't matter." He shrugged, lifting his mug to his lips. "I agreed to come along because I like you, Erica. More than you deserve."

"I know." I said, forcing a feeble smile. We both knew I couldn't reciprocate his feelings, but it was almost like he enjoyed my rubbing proverbial salt in his wounds.

It was silent for a little longer.

"Why are we doing this again?" He asked.

Again, I said nothing, avoiding eye-contact.

"Ah. Yeah, that's it. It's because your boyfriend dumped you, and I'm the rebound guy, right?" _Not even close_. "What the hell happened between you two, then?"

I could feel the beginnings of the grimace, my face crumpling, my eyes stinging. I tried to convince myself that it was the fault of the hot water vapour. "It's not important."

"I want to know."

"But I don't want to tell you." That was it. I had snapped. My mug slammed against the table top, sloshing over the rim and splashing against the polished wooden surface. I thought I had gotten over it. I thought that I would be able to move on. I was so wrong. "Oh... ah, sorry. It's just a touchy subject right now. Do me a favour and drop it."

Martin was already mopping up the remnants of my drink from the table. "He hurt you, didn't he?"

"Martin... please, just-" I shook my head, too tired to think or speak coherently. "Just don't. Okay?"

He grunted in response, crossing his arms over his chest.

Our eyes met briefly, before he looked away again. "Do you even want me here?"

"I don't know."

It disn't surprise me when he got up and walked out. I told him I wouldn't stop him, and meant it - but alone or with him, it made no difference. I felt hollow.

* * *

It was a week day, but the High Street was back to it's usual self. More crowded, noisy and a whole lot livelier. It made me feel out of place, trudging through the clumps of snow on the edge of the cobblestone road. It had only fallen last night, but it was already brown from grit and mud.

My eyes automatically searched for him in the crowd, zero-ing in on the dark-haired, alabaster skinned teens and undergraduates from the university under the mountain. Something told me that Lysander was no college alumni - gut instinct, perhaps... but it didn't stop me from wondering where he'd gone.

It didn't stop me from feeling cheated.

I didn't even really understand it. It was painful. Hatred, possibly. I don't think I'd ever really hated anyone before.

I hated him. All those secrets, those lies, those subtleties that I never understood, the actions that never made any sense. It was like he was trying to convey some sort of message in his own encrypted language.

But, above all that, I missed him.

And that made me hate him even more.

"What the hell were you thinking, you _big, fat shithead_?" Several people turned and stared. Mothers pulled wide-eyed children away from me, others pointed and whispered under their breath.

I ignored them. They didn't understand anyway. They would never be able to understand.

* * *

Snot nosed and red-eyed, I returned to the forest.

I don't even know why.

I guess some deluded part of me believed that he would be there, waiting for me. And I thought I hated him. I probably did. Our relationship hadn't exactly been plain sailing from the beginning. To think, it all started with a death threat.

Closing my eyes, I thought about him; tried to visualise him - uncover the feelings I felt when I was around him.

Most of it was fear, uncertainty, curiosity... lust. A bit. I liked it when he kissed me. I liked it when he touched me. There was even the odd moment where I doubted I would mind if he killed me. It was difficult to think about that sort of thing objectively, because most of it was clouded by physical memories, the sound of his voice an the way he smelled.

That was what made it so difficult to let go: I was attracted to him.

I picked up a large stick, covered in a dusting of snow - a small, collapsed tree. Its roots stuck out at the top like thick, wiry hairs, beginning to decay. The bark felt slimy in my hands; slimy and ice-cold. I used both hands to hold it and whack it against the nearest tree.

Snow sifted through the branched onto he ground... onto me. everywhere. I wasn't hitting hard enough.

Bark came away, baring the flesh of the trunk - a pale off-white.

It still wasn't enough.

Using the last of my strength, I made one final blow at the inanimate organism, snapping the dead tree in half. Wood chips fell away in splinters; clumps of moss and dirt came away in my hand, staining them brown, collecting in the beds of my nails.

I collapsed to my knees, panting loudly, fighting back the urge to cry like a loser. He didn't deserve my tears. He deserved a lot of things, but he was not getting my misery. He had already taken away enough.

I couldn't even breathe properly, couldn't see, only feel the aching in my chest. It was so wrong. So, so wrong. Unable to do anything else, I roared, loud and full of agony, full of rage at nothing in particular. The sound of bird's wings flapping in the distance my only accompaniement.

The sky above was so blue, so clear, but it only made the pain worse.

It was all his fault. I wanted to hurt him, to claw his stupid heart out and trample on it - if he'd even feel anything at all. If he even had a heart.

"I'll kill you." I told myself, clenching my fists and punching into the snow again, again, again, again. "I'll fricking kill you, bastard!"

Then everything was silent again, accentuated by my heavy breathing. Too silent.

_What was I doing here, again? _I thought. _I don't even remember._

Staggering to my feet, I tried to retrace my steps, tried to remember the direction I had come from. Everything looked the same. The same trees, the same sky, the same landscape. No matter how many times I thought I had gone the right way, the trees seemed to go on forever - continuously popping up in my way; creating miles and miles of obstacles.

I was lost.

And then, echoing from somewhere within the darkness, I heard someone _scream_.

My blood ran cold, eyes wide, body unable to move. Something wasn't right. I had been here thousands of times before, but it never felt this sinister, this empty.

It was almost as if, throughout the entire forest, I was the only one there.

I don't even remember why... my feet started moving on their own, pulling me towards the last sign of civilization I had left - my final salvation - that voice. Even though my mind kept screaming at me to turn back, even though I knew that whatever was waiting for me at the end would be far from safe haven, my legs still pushed forwards.

Desperation.

It was tangible... omnipresent - that hollowness that seemed to resonate here. A labyrinth of sharp, black silhouettes - grotesque spikes pointing out of the ground. Mist clung to the ground, low over the snow.

It felt colder here.

I could see it. In the distance. A clearing. The end. The exit.

But it didn't feel right. There was no overwhelming rush of relief. Instead, all I could feel was the cold. The proximity of the dark, closing in on me like some great beast; swallowing me whole.

My pace slowed as I approached the light, lacking the enthusiasm I had before. Lacking the hope.

I could see... a girl. A girl in a white dress, ghostly pale limbs bare. She just stood there, inert, staring at something that I couldn't see. There was something else, too, in the mist. Protruding from the whiteness.

Twigs crunched underfoot, the sound reverberating, amplified by the reticence. The girl turned, a curtain of ebony tresses hiding part of her face. I couldn't see clearly. I needed to get closer.

Hesitantly, I stepped out into the clearing. She continued to watch me, eyes never leaving me.

I moved forwards, towards the dark lump.

Closer...

... closer, closer, closer; until all I could hear was the rapid thudding of my heart. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't scream. I couldn't cry. All I could do was stare at the pool of blood, and the limp corpse in the centre.

Slowly, my head turned towards the girl, towards the blood stained arms, the torn dress. She followed my gaze, lifting her arms up to her face, smothered in puce.

Her fingers flexed, deep red, bones snapping into claws. A monster's claws.

She smiled.

Choking on my own bile, I backed away, back towards the trees - away from her. Away from both of them. The darkness felt safer.

Anything felt safer than that.

I ran, blind, not caring where my feet took me - just as long as they took me away from there. The cold wind stung my eyes, easing away the nausea, but the image stayed. The gooseflesh stayed.

It was the terror that stopped me from looking over my shoulder; the sheer terror that kept my body moving forwards, even when I felt like I couldn't go any further.

Home. Granddad. Even Martin. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. It was better than dying here, alone, where no one would find me.

Just like that girl.

My gut clenched, and I doubled over, emptying the contents of my stomach by the fringe of trees; a cliff, overlooking the Valley.

No. No. No. No. _NO!_

I couldn't stop. I had to keep going. I had to tell someone.

Even if I didn't want to admit to myself that I recognised that face, the auburn curls, those cold, dead eyes.

Fresh tears pattered against the melting snow, creating pin-pricks in the greying-blanket of slush.

"_Fiona_!"

* * *

**A/N: Do you hate me for deleting what... 17 chapters? Tbh all of the chapters after chapter 4 of the original story were absolute insert inappropriate language here. Not gonna lie. I'm changing the plot completely because it was confusing and clichéd, and no matter how many times I revised it, re-wrote it, and perfected it, it was still utter rubbish. I'm sorry. It's true.**

**So, naturally, it's going to take longer to finish. **

**I'm sorry if you miss the old story. I really am. But I'm not sorry fr deleting it. It was so... ugh. I felt ashamed. It's still not great, but I'm trying my best.**

**Thank you for reading! xoxo**

**And, seriously, thanks for all the support that I got when I first started writing this. It meant the world to me. It really did!**


	10. Move Along

Everything was numb.

"Miss?"

I couldn't think. I couldn't speak. Any movement seemed to be subconscious.

"Miss...?"

Even here, with the central heating blasting down at me, in my warmest fleece, I was cold. I was freezing cold.

"Miss!" A manicured hand slammed against the counter, the frame shaking slightly from the impact. Unable to block out the hysterical customer anymore, I looked up. "I want to pay for this, please?" She made it a question, as if she wasn't sure she could. I didn't care. It wasn't my business what she did with a power drill.

I shrugged, muttering an almost inaudible, "sure", before fishing around in the desk for the booklet with all the previous purchases. "Can I?" I asked, gesturing to the item in her tiny, little hands. The woman nodded, a little too quickly. If anything, it was suspicious - but it wasn't my business to poke my nose into a potential murder case. A customer was a customer - and, frankly, after everything I had seen, practically everyone within a kilometre radius of Fey Valley had psychopathic tendencies.

I didn't like her watching so eagerly over my shoulder, but we needed the money. It wasn't worth sending her away and regretting it later. Shallow, perhaps, but true all the same.

"Ah... great. That'll be... ninety-eight ninety-five, please."

Most people looked at me in disbelief, like they couldn't believe that D.I.Y tools could cost more than a tenner. This woman didn't. She dumped a hundred on the table, stuffed the drill in her designer bag and ran. As fast as her legs would carry her.

I don't think I'd ever seen anyone run that fast in five inch stilletos. "... You forgot your change..." my voice trailed off, drowned out by tinkling of the bell. It was a lost cause. I wasn't about to chase after her - if she wanted the money, she could come back for it. And, to be perfectly honest, she didn't look like she'd miss the measley 'tip' anyway.

It was seven o'clock at night. February 12th. About three weeks after Fiona's death.

I didn't go out much anymore - they were still sending out search parties. People still deluded into the fact that they might be able to find her... somewhere. I knew they were wrong. I knew, but I kept my mouth shut. I didn't want to be the prime suspect in the murder of my ex-best friend. The motive, in the eyes of the public, was already there.

"You can go now, Erica. I'll take over from here." My granddad was standing in the doorway, watching me. He always had a knack for catching onto my moods, even when I'd rather he minded his own damn business.

I couldn't meet his eyes because, like so many times before, they were obscured by his glasses. "You don't have to. I'm not even half way through my shift."

"But you're not well - and it's putting you in a bad mood. If you're in a bad mood, the customers won't buy."

Begrudgingly, I got to my feet and pulled on the parka that hung off the back of my chair. "If they're desperate, they will." I grumbled under my breath - half hopeful that he wouldn't hear me - handing him the hundred and leaving.

* * *

The weather hadn't been getting any warmer, and spring was fast approaching. If the cold front held strong, spring wouldn't be here til late April/early May. It's hard to admit, but slipping on ice and walking around with sodden shoes was starting to lose it's appeal.

It was sleeting today. The walls had turned black where they were still damp, and everything smelt wet and grimy. Humid. The clouds weren't as ominous and dark as they had been... but they were still heavy... obese, dragging across the sky sluggishly - threatening to squash us like bugs.

Even after out countless fall-outs/Martin's one-sided relationship that he never managed to make mutual, he still tried to hold conversations with me. Admittedly, when I wasn't trying to murder him with my eyes. If I said it was nice, I would be lying.

You see, my mood had been gradually spiralling downwards, punctuated by several events that had occurred in the space of time between Lysander's mysterious disappearance and, well... now.

Granddad had to come into my room one night, avec fire extunguisher because I had succeded at setting my room on fire. I now inhabited the couch in the living room, the remainders of my clothes in a suitcase by our small kitchen. The books had gone up in flames with the bedding and I made sure the window was shattered.

Anything he had touched, including my blazer, no longer existed.

And, in case he ever did decide to return, I left a cheery image of him decapitated on my bedroom wall.

But I didn't feel any better. Part of me felt sated, but the anger continued to well up. I liked to think I was angry at Lysander... and a part of me was. There wasn't even a valid reason. He just happened to pop-up in my life at the wrong time.

The park was empty. The little pond that I used to paddle in as a kid was frozen over - and, where the ice had cracked, moss collected. Overhead, the rooks were cawing ominously; the interlude to something bad, dangerous and most definitely dark.

A Threat.

But, what?

I turned, and I saw him.

"_You._"

"I liked the picure you drew for me." He stepped further out of the shadow, his face iluminated by the glow of artificial light. Funny that he only ever came out to play when the sun went down - maybe I was missing the punch line for some private joke. "It was very... powerful. Moving."

I said nothing. There were so many things I coul have said - words that hung on the tip of my tongue. Where were you? What were you doing? What the _crap_ were you thinking. But the only word that would form was: "jackass."

His expression was lazy, uninterested.

I chucked a large-ish rock at him, but it bounced off him like it had hit solid iron. He didn't even flinch. "Why the hell are you here? What do you want?"

"I think the more appropriate question is: what are you doing outside your house, here, at this hour?" _At this hour? _It wasn't even _that_ late! "It's not safe for you."

"What? Because you're going to kill me?"

He shrugged, non-comittally, like it was an insignificant detail. To him, it pobably was. "You didn't answer my question." He said.

"Neither did you." I countered, omitting the _twice_. He stepped closer, reaching out to me. I didn't know whether to run away then, or let him. Part of me didn't want his hand anywhere near me, but the other, purely instinctual half of me yearned for his touch. Almost desperate. I had a funny feeling that this 'purely instinctual' side would lead me, as the crow flies, to my impending doom.

"How about you answer me, and _then_ I answer you?"

"What is it with you and questions?"

His hand faltered, his lips cracking into a wry smile. A smile that didn't meet his eyes. Blood-chilling. "I could say the same about you."

Was he even trying to scare me? I didn't want to know. So, like anyone with common sense, I walked away.

"You're not mad, are you?" It was almost a laugh. Almost, because it held a hint of uncertainty. When I turned to meet his eyes, however, they were devoid of any emotion. Empty. It didn't match his voice at all; and suddenly, I didn't feel like I was communicating with _Lysander. _It's difficult to pinpoint exactly how I felt - mostly confusion and the ever-growing sense of dread.

"Figure that out for yourself." I said.

I could see his shadow overlapping mine, like some deep and meaningful omen. For what, I don't know. All I knew was that he wasn't going to let me shake him off. Ignoring it, I kept moving.

"Oh." I stopped, not bothering to turn to face him. "You know that picture you liked so much? That was you."

Leaving him on a high note - for me, at least - I crossed the line of trees, past the chainlink fence to the edge of the city. The road was eroded concrete - full of potholes and grit. In the summer it was covered in a layer of red dust. Honestly, I preferred the dust. Looking at half-melted snow was just making me depressed. I mean... if it was going to snow, couldn't it at least stay white and pristine like in the pictures?

By the time I reached the cross-roads I was disappointed, mostly because I had expected him to follow after me. But it had been forever since I had seen him last; who knew what kind of life he was leading. One thing was for certain, and that was that I was no longer part of it.

Well, whatever.

It's not like I cared what he did, right? I hated him, anyway.

The eerie glow of the street lights masked by dense fog was enough to make me feel uncomfortable; or maybe that was the bite of the cold creeping in through my layers upon layers of clothes.

Pulling my coat tighter around myself, rubbing my arms to get rid of some of the numbness, I marched in the general direction of my house.

The main problem was low visibility. I could probably find my way back home, eventually, blind-folded... well... maybe not. But I wasn't lost. I just couldn't see four square metres in front of me.

I could end up walking around for ages before I spotted my door.

"Damn it." I cursed, vision impared even more by the water vapour that escaped my lips. "I can't see."

The sound of footfall behind me rose the hairs on my neck. "Perhaps I could be of service."

SHIT. It was him.

But... how did he find me in this weather? How did he even catch up with me? I would have heard him sooner; noticed something at least. But now... now I could feel his stare like a puckered, agitated wound throbbing in my side.

"You don't _need_, or _want_ to help me." I said. "I'll find my way home eventually. Do yourself a favour and go back to your evil lair."

"That's no good." There was now a solid lump formed in my throat, worsened dramatically when he grabbed my forearm and pinned me against the nearest, brick wall. "I'm trying to be a good samaritan, and you throw it right back in my face."

"I don't want you to be a bloody _good samaritan_. I want you to get the frick off me!"

He chose to ignore me, smile widening. "You know, I've decided that I'm upset that you would go to all the trouble to diss me, Erica. Not even upset; I'm disappointed." The sound that left my throat was not dissimilar to a gagging noise. Again, he ignored it. "After all of the things I've done for you..."

I tried to protest, but his hand covered my mouth, forcing my head backwards until it collided with the hard surface behind us.

"But, because I'm nice, I'll let it slide."

_Oh, I beg to differ_. He frowned, like he had read my thoughts - not that they probably weren't plastered all over my face; I guess it wasn't the reaction he wanted, either, because he let go of my face. I don't think I missed him digging his fingers into my cheeks all that much, or banging my head against a wall.

"You don't believe me."

"No." I said defiantly, snatching my hand away when his grip on my wrist loosened. "I don't believe you. Why should I? You've never given me any reason to."

He looked at me like he didn't really understand, only adding fuel to the raging furnace of hatred and wrath. "I haven't, have I?" As if he only just got that _now_ of all times. And there was me, thinking he was cleverer than that. Just goes to show how wrong I was.

When he didn't stop me, I ducked out from our little wall sandwich; feeling angry and stupid. Stupid, because no matter how many times I walked away, I was always secretly happy to see him again - like some idiotic puppy.

"Why so cold, Erica?" He called out to me.

"Because you're a soulless jerk." I said.

"Do you really believe that?"

And, looking back at him, through the thick mist that encircled us, I really thought about it. I thought about why I hated him. I thought about all of the pent up feelings I'd had; the desperation for release, the hurt, the blame and the suffering. None of it was his fault but, at the same time, I wanted to point the finger at him. Just like Martin. "Yeah. I do."

And then I walked away, homeward bound, without looking over my shoulder.

* * *

When I got home and replayed the past day's events in my head, I sighed. Had I been to harsh? Didn't he deserve it? Originally, I never thought anything that I could have said to him would ever affect him. And, on a scale of one to ten (ten being obsessive and one being indifferent), his nonchalance probably left us not much higher than two, if we even got past zero.

After all, I was probably just a convenient _thing_ to pass the time with.

In his eyes, we probably weren't even on equal ground. Heck, in my eyes, we weren't on equal ground. He was like... this untouchable apparition that suckers vaguely normal people, like myself.

Why did I even bother with him?

You know what, I don't even think I had it in me to care anymore.

There was a photo on the mantelpiece above the fireplace - the village fête three years ago, when Fiona and I had still been friends; before all the ambiguity of familial pressures, my lack of self-esteem... before she died. And now she was gone, and I didn't even get to say sorry. I didn't even get to say good bye.

I didn't realise I was crying until tears were streaming down my face.

And then I couldn't stop. They just kept coming, wave after wave off emotional rock bottom, before there was literally no tears left to cry. My head hurt, my eyes were puffy and swollen... and I couldn't sleep.

Life. Officially. Sucks.

For a while, I even considered going outside to clear my head _again_. However, the likeliness of bumping into _him_ was dangerously high... and I valued my life. I hadn't suddenly become suicidal just because my only friend kicked the bucket.

But no matter how many times I dealt myself the same, langurous pep-talk - I still felt guilty; and I didn't know how to cope with guilt.

When I looked out the window, the sun was already rising over the horizon, tinting the sky a pinkish colour. I stared bleakly at it; like I couldn't think of anything I hated more. Oh wait! That would be _myself_.

With that, I sank onto the sofa, and pulled the covers up over my ears.

It was going to be a long, painful week.

* * *

**A/N: I actually started writing this last sunday, then got writer's block. sorry I took down the sequel. **

**Put down your firearms, people! **

**It was all for the greater good - and if I ever do finish this (again) - then I might put up another sequel and not kill off the character. Twice. Yeah, sorry for those of you who just started reading - but that doesn't technically count as a spoiler because the plot has undergone some dramatic changes. But I'm not telling you what has chaged! Muahahahaha! So technically, it's not even a spoiler at all! It's a red-herring!**

**Please, if you have a heart, don't ask me what a red-herring is.**

**So yeah...**

**... this also took a while because I am ill with the flu!**

**Yuck. It's been going around our school and some idiot gave it to me - so now, just my luck, I can't breathe when I eat - I have a permanent blocked nose induced head ache, my throat itches, my temperature fluctuates and I should probably be in bed... but I can't breathe when I lie down! It's a lose-lose sitch. D':**

**THANK YOU FOR READING! - and if you take the time to read the little notes at the bottom I'd just like to say that you're probably wasting your time! But thank you anyway, fellow time-wasters!**

**WATCH THIS SPACE! L.O.L smileyface**

**(You won't believe how long I've wanted to say that for. It's actually sad how boring my life is.)**


	11. Die Another Day

Part of me was glad to be back into the swing of things: namely school. It was still awkward and uncomfortable, and sometimes I felt so on edge that I just wanted to have a random screaming fit wherever it seemed appropriate. Mostly during lessons, when there was a sufficient number of unsuspecting classmates to annoy.

Martin recommended me his psychotherapist.

I bet he didn't even have a psychotherapist - I mean, need one - because, of course, he just happened to live in a house where every bloody doctor under the sun was 'on call'. If he wanted a psychotherapist (for whatever reason), he could have one. No fuss, no questions asked. It was nice that he offered to sub me for the fee, as well; however, I declined as politely as I could.

If I wanted a psychotherapist; people got curious. I'm no celebrity icon, so what could possibly be wrong with my life?

What could _possibly_ be wrong?

Because - oh, I don't know - my friend dying had nothing to do with my depression at all. It was like Fiona had been completely erased from everyone's memory - and that spooked me. People didn't even talk about her. At all. Like she never even existed.

God, I felt like a broken record. But the thoughts wouldn't go away... the image of her corpse plastered across the vast expanse of my mind. Inescapable.

Talking about the inescapable...

A cold shiver ran down my spine. For the sixth time today. The kind of shiver you get when someone's watching you.

When I turned around, though, all I could see was the crowd of students filtering out of the school gates. Just students. But there was one person amongst that crowd - one person standing still - and I couldn't see their face...

... if only they would move a little closer.

"The expression on your face is priceless." Were the words of the interruptor that pulled me into the street. "Hey, alien, how about coming back down to our hemisphere, yeah?"

"Oh. Hi, Martin." His smile grew at the sound of his own name. Egomaniac.

"Seriously, what's wrong? You've been gawping at space for the past two minutes... I was starting to worry that you were having some kind of stroke."

I hadn't exactly registered what he said, still slightly shaken. Trying to avert my attention from the uncomfortable niggling thought at the back of my head - the one that never went away - well, I kind of sneezed. Or snorted. One or the other. It was cold, and I needed an excuse to detatch my arm from Martin's hand. still, like vomit, the words fell out of my mouth. "Don't be stupid, idiot."

He watched my face carefully, like he was trying to read my thoughts, perhaps. "I wasn't, actually."

I shrugged.

Apparently, that wasn't good enough. "Were you even listening to a word I just said?"

"Huh?" Oh shit. If my shock didn't give me away, then my complexion definitely did. "What are you...?"

"Talking about?" He interjected. I didn't nod, or correct him, just looked away. There was nothing else to do. Self-righteous pig head was, for once, in the right... and I had no words left to dig myself out of the hole I had buried myself in. Might as well go down without a fight.

I don't even think I had the stamina for it.

"Look... I get a lot's been on your mind, but I'm worried." When I didn't look at him, he turned my head to face him, his breath fanning across my face. He smelt like spearmint. "You keep on spacing out. Last time I checked, that's not exactly a good sign."

"So you're going to make it your mission to fix me? Because you think I'm broken? Good luck with that."

Even when I tried to break away from him, he still grabbed for me, persistent to get his way. "Don't just walk off, Erica. You need help."

"I don't want your psychotherapist, Martin." Before he could protest, I added, "or your money. So please, just let this go."

"I'm sorry, Erica. If I could make this any easier, I would."

No matter how earnest he sounded, I'd never believe him. "Yeah. I know."

* * *

It was getting colder when it was supposed to be getting warmer. You could call it a fluke of the weather or a freak of mother-friggin-nature. Sort of.

Standing outside in the park where I last saw him had become a daily habit... waiting for _him_. For whatever reason, I waited in the same spot every day, whether it was just in the hopes of catching a glimpse... or something more. It had gone beyond physical attraction and lust... it had become a necessity. Even if part of me knew that he'd be the death of me; it was like I couldn't flush him out of my system no matter how many times I wished him dead, cursed him, blamed him.

My own frantic eyes surveyed the surroundings, searching for signs of life.

Signs of anything.

Truth be told, it was a step up from almost pouncing on unfamiliar faces that resembled him, and abruptly apologising; but not by much. I felt ashamed at the same time as I felt enthralled by every second that ticked by; basking in the sensation that I was teetering closer to the edge of some bottomless pit. What the pit resembled, I don't know.

The tolling of the bell from the clocktower rang through the hollow streets of Fey Valley, filling the reticence with an unshakable tension.

In the wind, I heard the fluttering of a cloak, my body automatically turning towards the town.

Against the light of the street, I could see a silhouette; and, just as quickly as it came, it disappeared.

Was that... no... it couldn't be? Could it? Had he been here all this time?

As the thought ran through my head, the sense of weightless excitement began to seep away into nothingness. "Lysander?" I called out, but there was no answer. Just the sound of the bell toll fading into nothing.

I felt cold. Colder than usual, because that hollow feeling started to return.

It had been like this not too long ago... back in that forest; the sense of an omnipresent danger looming over my shoulder.

_I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be here. It's not safe. I've got to run. I've got to get out, home, anywhere that's not here._

He... Lysander. This wasn't him.

But the bite of terror, the thrill, that was still there.

But somehow the darkness had more potent than before... becoming more suffocating; something unbreakable, untouchable, not even by light.

My legs started moving by themselves. I think that was mostly to do with fight-or-flight instinct, except my body understood that, whatever this was, wasn't looking for the fight. It was looking for the kill. The thrill of it.

All those murders they used to talk about when I was little - those young girls being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

And I knew exactly what they meant.

I wasn't about to become another statistic.

Not today.

The streets started to feel like those trees, flashbacks from that nightmare flooding my mind as I turned each corner; my breath ragged from the overexersion. My eyes were watering from the fear. The adrenaline. My blood was pumping loudly - so loudly that it was all I could hear.

And then my body stopped.

My body stopped at the sight of several bodies crouched low to the ground, facing away from me, the light illuminating the material of their clothes.

If it wasn't for the dull smell, the inhuman noises coming from their direction, I would have thought they were normal.

But they weren't.

One by one, the snarling, the hissing slowed to a stop along with the sticky noises of snapping limbs. Something rolled towards me, something discarded; and upon recognising it, that numb feeling returned.

An eyeball.

One by one, the five figures stood, turning to face me; clothes saturated in gore, mouths and necks glistening a grotesque red in the light. That wasn't what made my heart stop. No. It was their eyes.

Their eyes were pitch black.

Empty.

Hungry.

I shrieked, lungs burning with the strain.

And then my eyes snapped open, my body bathed in sweat, wrapped in the security of a warm duvet cover on the sofa I had claimed. Bits of hair clung rebelliously to my forehead as I tried to peer through the darkness. It was my house. I was safe.

Just an anxiety dream, right?

I'd been having a lot of those, lately: anxiety dreams about fairy tale monsters that weren't supposed to exist. But, gradually, every day, I started to question the truth in that. That, and my sanity.

If I didn't rule out their existence, then suddenly everything made sense. In a sick and twisted way.

A sudden rush of nausea had me staggering to my feet, and stumbling towards the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind me.

* * *

"I was thinking that maybe getting you a psychotherapist wouldn't be a bad idea."

I shovelled another spoonful of Granola into my mouth. "I already told you: no. No means no, Granddad. Stop siding with that bloody rich prick."

"Why? Because it hurts your pride to seek help from him?" His palms slammed against the table, face tinged with red. I'd rarely seen him livid before. This was one of those times. "Other than that, I don't get what the problem is. He's all but offered his services to you on a silver platter." This time the light didn't hide it, that unfamiliar haunted look in his eyes. "This can't carry on, Erica. Lately I can't even sleep because I keep wondering whether you've fallen unconscious in a pile of your own sick."

I gagged on my breakfast, sending him a pleading look with my eyes.

He ignored it, heaving that exaggerated sigh that is so characteristic of him. "I've already called him... that friend of yours. If anything, he's even more worried than I am. That might bother you; but he's beyond willing to help."

"And I need the help?" I asked.

Granddad said nothing.

"Of course I do." I muttered under my breath, carrying my half-eaten breakfast to the bin and emptying the contents of the bowl into it.

After that, it was that sort of silence that lasts forever; the one where a thousand little epiphanies pounce on you and pummell you down.

I swallowed loudly, not daring to face him. "You didn't tell him, did you?"

"If you're talking about the nightmares, he knows."

"Everything?" My voice cracked.

"If he's offering his services to us, he deserves to know." Granddad reasoned. His reasoning was crap.

I all but whirled around and pounded his face in. "How could you? How could you do this to me?"

"He's trying to help you, Erica."

"What if this won't go away with their help? Did you ever consider that I might never get better?" Something made his eyes tighten, bringing back that haunted look. I think it was despair. "Why didn't you consider how I would feel if you did this?"

"I did this for you." Was all he felt he needed to say.

I didn't care whether that was true or not. I didn't care that the greater good pointed towards the last person I would ever go to for help. I wasn't going to go, and that was that. I didn't need help. I didn't need help.

* * *

Today was the ritual burning of scribbles of the monster that haunted my dreams.

Or monsters, as the case may seem.

If we'd had a smoke alarm, this wouldn't have worked... but we didn't. A few weeks ago, I'd had to explain to Granddad what I was doing. Now he accepted it as common practice. Normally he'd come and check on me; except, this week he had asked me to see a psychotherapist, and I had taken it badly, so now he was keeping his distance in the hopes that I might do it willingly if he didn't push me.

The problem was, I was too close to the proverbial edge for it to matter anymore; psychotherapist or none.

And rapidly getting there faster and faster.

"Is that me?" I looked up and saw _him_.

At first, I thought I was hallucinating, staggering away from him; the smoke obscuring his face. Through it, I could see red eyes. Red eyes. Not black.

"This isn't very nice." He muttered. His voice was barely even a whisper, but I could hear every word. "I don't burn pictures of you, do I?"

_Stupid. How would I know that?_ I'd meant to say it out loud, but the words wouldn't form.

Instead, my body tensed with each step he took.

Closer.

Closer.

Closer.

He slid behind me, kneeling down so I could feel him through the material of my jumper. His arms captured me, sliding around my waist; his head nuzzling the crook of my neck. His eyes were red, not black. He wasn't a monster, right? He couldn't be, could he? He looked nothing like them.

A strangled gasp left my mouth as he nibbled the sensitive spot above the nape of my neck. I resorted to suppressing the moan, biting my lip and clenching my fists.

"You're so quiet." He whispered. "... And you smell fantastic. It makes me want to taste you."

I think he noticed the sudden sluggishness of my pulse, and the claminess of my skin, because he hummed in question. Either that, or amusement.

"Scared that I'll hurt you?"

"Scared _of_ _you_." I corrected, wincing when our position started to become uncomfortable. "What... why are you here?"

He chuckled. "To see you, silly." Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Then... then he did something that I wasn't anticipating. He ran his tongue over my neck line, making me shiver involuntarily against him.

He didn't have black eyes. He wasn't them. But every time I tried to convince myself, it seemed more and more like I was trying to deny the truth.

"Sh-should..." the sensation of his teeth tugging on my ear left me trailing off on a tangent.

"Should?" He continued to decorate my collar bone with feather-like kisses. "Should... what?"

"Should I... be _afraid_ of... _you_?" I asked.

And I felt stupid.

Why would I ask him that? He already knew I was terrified, and now I was asking him whether that was normal. It was like I had gotten a bad case of brain damage. As expected, he laughed, finally discontinuing his painfully slow torture. It was a laugh so deep that I could feel it resonate inside of me, and suddenly I was so much more aware of just how close he was - just where he was touching...

"You never fail to amuse me, Erica." His voice still rang with mirth. Mirth at my expense. "But I'll let you in on a little secret."

He was now leaning closer into me, pressing himself against me, soft hair brushing against my ear.

"You should be afraid."

He barely even said it, but I felt like he had just shouted it at me; now completely oblivious to the mouth that resumed its attack down the other side of my neck, slender fingers bending my head backwards for ease of access. Even then, the words still hadn't really sunken in yet.

"Very afraid."

That was when it hit me; when he sunk his fangs into my skin.

* * *

**A/N: I seem to be doing a lot of cliff hangers lately. Sorry if they are getting on your nerves.**

**AND sorry this is so late! I have been so busy that you wouldn't even know! ahh God, I still have an essay to email to my teacher and shit I need to do that or she'll be pissed at me. FML! **

**But yeah. It's half term. TWO WEEKS OFF &: Off to Nueva York in... what? 3 fudging days! Yeah, baby!**

**So I hope this chapter wasn't too much of a disappointment. Everyone made an appearance, and Erica is starting to go a little nuts. Or, at least, she thinks she is.**

**THANK YOU FOR READING!**


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